He fishes a lighter from the top pocket of his shirt and lights the rag that hangs from the bottle. “Keep going, don’t wait for me,” he says, standing his ground. He waits for the dead to congregate around the corner and build as more bodies converge behind them. Once the wick is a mere stub, he grits his teeth and lets it fly, hurling it head level at the growing mass. The bottle crests at the crowd and drops to the asphalt with a brittle crack. An inferno rises at their feet, sending flames licking up at the rags they wear as clothes. They’re packed so tightly together that the fire builds, spreading through the mob as they bump and jostle into one another. The sizzling sounds almost silence their feeble cries, but transform as more of the dead bask in the light of burning fuel.
Jacob backs away as the fire rises and begins to fully engulf the dead. As more converge, they are swept up in the sea of flame and ignite along with the others. Their molten moans gurgle out like basting meat, sending a shiver along Jacob’s spine as he watches in awe. Their eyes finally melt away in their sockets and a fluidic sizzle ensues before they begin to fall. The burning roadblock gives him enough time to make a hobbling retreat and catch up with Emma who is waiting at the boardwalk to the beach.
He favors his sore leg as he approaches and glances back from time to time to make sure the dead are still occupied at the intersection. Their miserable moans carry through the morning air and they howl in an unnatural pitch before they fall.
In the war, he had seen soldiers burnt alive by flamethrowers, only to succumb to the lack of oxygen before their bodies turned to blackened husks. But the dead, shallow and lifeless, take much more to deal with. When he had tried the same thing a couple of weeks back, he found that there was something in the decay, maybe methane or whatever it was that brought them back that made them flammable. He was pleased with himself when he found that they went up like roman candles once they ignited. It had been the single highlight in an otherwise hopeless situation. And now, looking back at his efforts made him think that one day, they may finally fall for good.
“We’ll take it slow along the walk, we don’t want to attract any more than necessary,” he says in a hushed voice, glancing around at the handful of bodies shuffling off toward the docks.
Emma nods in agreement as she watches a group of bodies shamble off along the street by the pier, following the masses that encircle through the back and around to where the others are burning.
Some of the dead have returned to the beach and are scouring around the drainage outlet along a manmade rock formation that is placed to keep people away from the sewers.
Emma points and Jacob follows the direction of her finger until he can see a speck of someone coming out through the rocks along a sandy trail that leads over the final dune to the beach. He squints through the sunlight to make out the form and turns toward the dead that amble close by.
“Hurry, we have to go,” he says and grabs the cart from Emma. “There’s not much time.”
“But, grandpa…” Emma points out toward the breaker.
“It’s just another body,” he says and strengthens his grip on the cart.
·14
Waves crash upon the desolate beach, cresting, foaming before they break: row after row surges in, erupting in a cascade of white and blue that flows along the sand in circular patterns. Occasionally, seaweed and debris float ashore, strewn about, and dot the landscape.
Seagulls bank hard, drifting downward, picking through the remnants of the previous storm. Their hacking, high pitched squeals sound off like a battalion of soldiers, barking out orders, moving in to pick through the waste of fallen enemies. In a frenzy, the birds work through the sand, searching for their elusive meals and peck at the dead if they happen to be in the way.
Her body is shivering from the cold. She trudges along as her feet sink in ankle deep through the sludge that the ocean has purged forth. She is miles from home, or what she once considered home, wandering along the shoreline for lack of any other place to go. Her mind is as thick as the muck she negotiates through, filled with fragments of memory that flash through her like morbid clips from a slide show.
Beach homes, once groomed and polished now lay in ruin, decayed from years of neglect. April glances at them from time to time, hoping the next look she takes will suddenly bring them back to life. She bows her head when she realizes they will only fall closer to oblivion as time washes them away. There is the smell of smoke in the air, mingling with roasted flesh and she becomes sick of the thought of what may be cooking nearby.
As she looks down the beach, April stops cold when she sees a body crouching on the shore, only a few hundred yards away, bent over something in the sand. Moans can be heard in the distance, erupting into deafening howls and groans as the dead pick through the streets. She watches the figure for a moment, glances around for a better route to travel, and veers off to the right, heading towards the weathered homes. The corpse doesn’t seem to notice her, doesn’t even pay her the faintest glance as it continues to tear into the mass of gray pulp on the beach.
April can’t help but stare as she passes the creature, curiosity getting the better of her. The torn out body of a seal lays sprawled out, guts looped and hanging over its prone body as the creature kneels beside it, gorging itself on glistening flesh. She feels nausea rise up inside the pit of her empty stomach, cramping her abdomen, surging a torrent of gastric juices into her throat. All she can do is stop and breath, hopefully allowing the feeling to eventually subside.
Turned toward the mainland, April looks away in disgust, compelled to run. Behind her, the sound of surging water ensues. Wet, rancid gurgling noises follow before the first groan emits. She pauses, turns slowly, not wanting to see what it is that the ocean has stirred forth. A hiss evaporates under rushing waves and squealing birds. Over her shoulder, she looks at the outline of a man, black as tar, leaking waste from his body. With tired, lucid movements the corpse wanders on shore, skinless and void. The remnants of its clothes hang like rags, as black as an oil slick, dripping from its exposed bones.
The slightest whimper escapes from April’s mouth, drowned out by the slurping noises of the shambling body as it slops up onto the beach after her. She quickens her pace a little and looks back toward the ocean. Decayed, waterlogged faces appear in the surf. Featureless visages groan out the sea from their lungs, cascading over mouths devoid of lips and over the rot that clings to their putrid skulls.
Ten bodies move toward the shore, followed by ten more, and another handful after that. The sea spits out the dead, waves topple the bodies over, rolling them out onto the beach while some retain their footholds, shambling closer to the promise of escaping the wicked surf.
Knees weak, April struggles forward, propelled by fear. There are a mass of corpses now, all with the same features; black, rotting scraps of skin hanging deflated like the sails of some gruesome ghost ship, wrecked at sea. She panics, begins to run as if in slow motion as her feet sink into the wet sand. She trips over a length of driftwood protruding from the surface of the beach. At the very last moment, she twists, lands on her back, and gasps for air.
Kicking, Aprils scurries on her back, jerks over onto her forearms and pushes herself up as another wave of death emerges from the surf. She catches a glimpse, the faintest outline of a child standing in the street above the retaining wall that keeps the ocean at bay.
April’s arms swing as she gains footing and begins to sprint. Drenched voices, muddy and gurgling, chorus behind her. The dead seem to be right at her heels as she dashes toward a set of stairs that lead up to the walkway along the coast. She looks back again for fear of being overwhelmed by the dead. She breathes deeply, trying to calm herself as she realizes they are still struggling at the shore, slowly making their way out of the foaming waters.
Holding firmly to the handrail, she pulls herself up every step of the stairway, exhausted. At the last rest, April snags the sole of her shoe on a bit of broken concrete and topples downward onto the
landing. Her head hits the walkway with a thud before her vision whitens into a burst of electrified cloudiness.
In a kaleidoscopic whirl, clouds twirl and dance above her, peppering a perfectly blue sky with wisps of white and gray. Her breath is heavy, labored as she watches the world spin around her. April blinks several times, trying to bring the image into focus. A throbbing pain beats at the side of her head, pounding in unison with her injured knee.
A white bearded face appears above her, mingling with the clouds in the background as the rest of his features snap in and out of focus, “You’ll be fine. We’re going to get you out of here,” he says, patting her forehead, his voice is hallow and sympathetic; his movements, quick and restless.
Heat rises from below, trailing dark smoke tinted with the smell of burning hair. April’s feet tingle from the warmth. Glass breaks. A bright, orange flash is followed by a booming whoosh. The dead howl and hiss at the explosion. She can feel their voices reverberate through her, mingling with the flesh of her back, working along her spine, and resting at the base of her skull.
“Where am I?” April asks, but no one is there to answer.
Seconds seem like hours while she lays there, confused and forgotten.
“I’ve got you, hold still and we’ll be out of here in a jiffy,” the old man reassures her.
April feels hands nudge up beneath her shoulders, lifting her, sliding her over a few feet. She is gently placed upon something soft, something safe and comforting. Her legs come next. A pain shoots up from her knee, mingles with the slightest discomfort from her ankle before she feels the cushion beneath her.
The view below the barrier exposes itself as April feels herself being lifted. She peers down through the smoke at the landing of the stairwell, greeted by flames that lick upward toward the sky. Through heat vapors and black smoke, the faces of the dead appear deformed and surreal, flailing at the fire. Bodies shamble off along the beach, ignited, screaming through melting mouths and crackling bones as April is pulled away. The smell of gasoline is strong, but she can’t pinpoint where it is coming from.
She cocks her head to the right. Her eyes are heavy, but she can see a child holding a small rifle. At the end of the barrel a potato is fastened; holes carved through the surface like some type of science project gone wrong. For a moment, she wonders if she’s seeing things. The child levels the weapon, aims and pulls the trigger. With a muted pop, the potato flashes and a creature falls a half of a block behind. The child nods at April and gives her a wink.
Unable to see where she is being taken, April watches as the world departs. She can feel every scrape and bump as the makeshift cot is dragged along the rough surface of the walkway. Her head bumps on a protrusion beneath the matting of the cart. Her hands fumble with the bars along the sides.
“Where are you taking me?” April asks the child.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa is taking us somewhere safe,” the child replies.
Beneath disheveled brown hair and a scarf that covers most of the child’s face, April realizes a little girl dwells within. Her voice is timid and soft, reassuring and calm. There is a fire in the child’s eyes as she levels the rifle again.
Pop!
As she is being dragged away, April watches a corpse that follows. With a sudden look of realization, the creature stops in its tracks and topples over backwards, a small hole appearing on its forehead, right above its left eye.
The little girl pats April’s arm, “See? I’m a pretty good shot,” she says, lowering her scarf. “I’m Emma. What’s your name?” she smiles.
“April.”
“Like the month?”
“Yes, like the month.” April curves her lip.
“Emma, get the gate,” the old man rests the cot against his back and waits for the child.
“Okay, Grandpa.”
April hears a click and a long scrape that sounds like a lever being pulled. With a resounding creak, she can hear a gate open and the cot begins to move again.
“Make sure you lock it,” the old man says.
“I will, Grandpa.”
The old man’s weathered face appears above April, smiling through his thick, white beard. His eyes are kind, gentle and wise. “The ride is going to get a little bumpy, I have to try and pull you through the doorway.”
With a twist and a jerk, the old man pulls April through the steel framed door at the back of the house. He grunts, lets a deep breath escape through his nose, and tugs again. The edges of the makeshift cot scrape along the door frame before April is finally inside.
As she is pulled through the door, April can smell food; a light aroma of spices and vegetables wafting through the air, dancing ever so slightly against her nose. Images of her youth play at her mind. She remembers being in her own grandparent’s home, absorbing the same smells and instantly feels at ease.
“I hope you’re hungry,” the old man laughs. “I’ve made too much soup today and I can’t imagine Emma and I being able to finish it off by ourselves.”
A tear rises at the corner of April’s eye. It has been so long since she has anything real to eat, so long since she has even smelled something cooking that her emotions overwhelm her. Her mouth waters from anticipation and her stomach grumbles in cue.
“Oh, that’s all right, now. I could make you something else.” The old man pats her shoulder as he sits the cot down on the floor.
“No, no. I’m sorry. Soup would be great. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten.” April smiles and wipes away the tear from her cheek.
“Well then, soup it is!” the old man chuckles, leans down to April, and extends his hand. “April, is it?”
“Yes,” she replies.
“I’m Jacob, very nice to make your acquaintance,” he says, patting her hand. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Grandpa, is she going to stay with us?” Emma asks.
“Well now, that’s entirely up to her, but I imagine she will need some rest before going back out there with the bad people, don’t you think?”
“So she will stay until she’s better?”
“Most likely,” he answers. “Longer if she wishes,” he adds and pats the child on the head.
“She can stay in my room with me,” the girl exclaims.
Jacob smiles and shakes his head. “A woman needs her privacy. She’ll stay in the guest room, upstairs once her leg is better.” He rests his attention on April’s leg. “For now, she will have to stay down here where we can make sure she gets better.” He looks April in the eyes. “If that’s all right with you,” he adds.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“Wonderful,” he beams. “Now let’s see about that soup.”
The sun shines brightly through the kitchen window, sending rays of light down along the cobblestone floor. Tiny flecks of dust glimmer and twinkle as they dance through the light. A butcher’s block partition stands in the center of the kitchen with a few vegetables laid out on top. At the far side of the room, a large pot boils and steams atop a wood stove that looks to be a relic of the last century. There is an air of antiquity as April scopes out her surroundings, basking in the flavor of what looks to be a mountain cottage rather than an expensive beach house.
Jacob holds April beneath her arms and asks, “Are you ready?”
“I think so,” she replies as she braces herself.
“On the count of three,” he says. “One... Two... Three…” He lifts April off of the cot with ease and gently sits her down on a kitchen chair. “Now let’s take a look at that bump on your head.” Jacob brushes her hair to the side, revealing a small protrusion on her scalp. “Well, it doesn’t look pretty, but you’ll be okay,” he says and diverts his attention to Emma. “Sweetie, go get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
The child scurries out of the room with a spring in her step and quietly hums a tune.
Jacob lifts April’s pant leg. “Ouch! Does it hurt?” he asks.
“It’s kin
d of numb,” she replies.
“You’ve got a nasty scrape, and your knee seems to be swelling.” He looks around the kitchen. “I’m fresh out of ice,” he says with a wink, “but I can wrap it for you.”
Emma runs through the doorway and places a small box with a red cross stenciled across the front on the kitchen table. She plays at the edges of the box for a time and scoots it along the counter.
“Get me a spool of gauze and the can of antiseptic spray,” he tells the child.
Emma searches through the contents of the kit and retrieves the supplies, handing her Grandfather the can of antiseptic spray first. She lets the lid rest on the counter and eyes the contents with curiosity.
“Now this is going to sting a bit. Are you ready?”
April squints and waits for the pain. “Yes,” she says and nods her head.
With a few taps of the nozzle, a light mist covers April’s bruising knee. She recoils from the sting and grips the arms of the kitchen chair, pushing herself up slightly in the seat until the burning subsides. She lets out a small hiss and lets her body relax back into the chair.
“There, that’s it. Now I’ll wrap it up and you’ll be as good as new,” he says and unrolls a few inches of gauze before looking over at Emma. “Get some bowls out of the cupboard while I take care of April’s knee.”
“Okay,” the child answers.
“Let me know if it’s too tight,” he tells April.
“No, that should be fine,” she says, easing back down into her seat. “Thank you for saving me.”
“No problem at all, child. I’m sure you would have done the same for me,” he replies, tying the end of the gauze into a neat little knot when he has finished wrapping it. “There, that should do just fine, just fine.” As an afterthought, Jacob turns toward Emma and says, “Be a dear and fetch my cane. My leg is aching.”
Waiting to Die ~ A Zombie Novel Page 13