Two facts leapt to his mind as he realized he couldn’t see her anywhere. The first was that the girl wouldn’t have wandered off; she would have waited at least a few minutes to see if he really was going to follow. Second, and more importantly, he remembered the conversation in the ruined kitchen. “I can’t swim,” she had said. He took a huge breath and dove beneath the surface, feeling his way through the inky water.
It was a miracle that his hand brushed hers. She was near the bottom of the flooded basement, her escape towel twisted around her legs. He put his arm around her waist and used his long legs to propel them to the surface, using the lifeguard’s rescue stroke to pull her to the edge of the deep pool. He yanked her up onto solid ground, muscles straining. He ignored the painful burning in his arms, pulling the girl completely out of the water and over to a small burning chunk of debris that might once have been a lounge chair.
She wasn’t breathing, her lips blue, her eyes unfixed and unblinking. She was cold, her face pale white in the sputtering fire light. He was losing her.
He cleared her mouth, took a deep breath and put his lips to hers, forcing air into her lungs. He unzipped her jacket and laced his fingers together to begin performing CPR. He counted out the pumps to her left breast, gave another breath, and repeated the process. “Don’t you do this, Angela! Don’t you do this, not after all this! You’re tougher than this! Come on!” he demanded desperately.
On his fifth rescue breath she coughed, water spurting from her lips. He rolled her to her side and patted her back to help get the rest of the fluid from her lungs. She choked, coughed some more, and finally took a deep, shuddering breath. He pulled her into a fierce hug, cradling her head in his arms, both from relief and to warm her. Tears streamed down his face.
“You saved me again,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Did we get away?”
He smiled down at her. “Yeah, we did. We made it.”
She grinned back at him weakly, her hand stroking his chin. “So how about asking me out now?”
Michael nodded and smiled, fingers running through her wet hair. For a moment his eyes flicked to the ring of zombies surrounding them, perhaps thirty strong, shuffling toward them with cold, unfeeling eyes. “If we survive this,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
Wesley is a writer with a flair for the dark, the twisted, the beautiful, and the strange. He resides in Tarpon Springs, Florida with his wife, Brenda, and daughter, Elizabeth Jadzia. His poetry and prose has appeared in various small press magazines and anthologies. Find him online at
www.wesleydylangray.com.
There are those among us, crazy realists and radicals who rely on common sense and that sort of nonsense, who will tell you that the zombie plague could never happen. That the idea of the putrid undead walking the Earth is fictional whimsy, nothing more.
And then there are those of us who know better.
If the zombie plague were to hit tomorrow, what would you do? In “Lay to Rest”, our hero Elias would tell you that a man’s got to take care of his family above all else. Just because the zombie apocalypse is upon us doesn’t mean a man’s priorities are going to change. In this glimpse into our inevitable zombie-ridden future, Elias still manages to keep his cool and put his family first. It’s not easy dodging zombies on Elias’s perilous journey to reach his wife and child...but he’s dead set on reaching them.
Lay to Rest
By: Wesley Dylan Gray
The wanderer peered into the obsidian eye of the beast as the vultures above him entrenched twisted patterns in the sky. The orb was glazed over and it reflected a hazy image of the man’s sun-scarred face. The breaths from his dying horse were quick and labored and they pushed up puffs of dust as one nostril flared against the ground. The reflection was soon eclipsed by hollow steel and the image of the elongated barrel wrapped around the eye in an endless circuit. The shot that followed ripped through the orbit and forced a path into the brain. Elias holstered his weapon and labored onward, leaving the corpse behind, knowing that his final companion would now serve as nothing but a banquet of sustenance for those aerial scavengers.
The dust winds that blew from east to west across the salty desert brought no comfort from the intense radiation pouring down from the red sun. The man no longer knew the luxury of sweat, and he scratched at dry flesh between the wrapped strips of fabric which served to shield him. An emaciated water skin clung to his back like a scab, and a pair of revolvers bounced in criss-crossed holsters upon his bony hips. He laid his mark into the dirt, his course leading him down a long forgotten trail. The road here was no longer visible due to the absence of running caravans, yet he clearly knew the way.
Elias neared the wreckage of one of those lost convoys. It was stretched out across the sand like a dead serpent and had veered nearly twenty meters from the path where the wooden carcass now lay still. The sand on the east side of the four tattered wagons had amassed into dunes. The wind blazed through them, picking up momentum as it howled between the mounds. Bone piles littered the ground and protruded from the wavy surface. Elias knew there would be nothing human among the relics, just the picked-clean skeletons of the caravan’s horses. The odds of finding any useful salvage within the heap were slim. But his destination yet loomed in the distance and the prospect of finding water, even mere droplets lurking within an old skin, lured him into the area of wreckage.
Elias approached the largest of the wagons. To one side, where there had once been a door, there was nothing but a gaping hole outlined with cracked and splintered planks of wood. With the sun directly overhead, the space within maintained a firm grip upon its darkness. He withdrew a single revolver and crept up the incline of sand leading into the opening. With its jagged shards of wood appearing as teeth, the hole was like the slobbering maw of a beast; the slope of sand was the rolled out tongue eager to accept him.
Elias knew he’d made a mistake when he caught scent of the decayed flesh and a moment later he heard the scampering movement of the creature inside. He took a step back from the hole, hoping to gain enough distance to get off a true shot, but he knew it was too late. In a flash, the thing sprang from the shadows and was on him. The force knocked him to his back and the tangled pair slid down the sand.
The snarling form of a man was latched on and it hovered above him, drooling and gurgling. The beast trenched its gnarled fingers into Elias’ neck and ribs and then burrowed its withered face into his right shoulder. Grotesque teeth sank straight to muscle. As the pain surged, his own teeth clenched in an open grimace and the grit in his mouth was crushed like shards of glass.
With the creature at such close proximity, Elias did not dare to fire his gun, lest he risk shooting himself. But in the jumble of rubble and dirt, his left hand came upon a severed plank of wood. He traded gun for plank, lifted the shard into the air, and forced it downward, burying it deep into the creature’s backside. The thing barely gave up a flinch, but recoiled ever so slightly. It was just enough of a gain for Elias to push out and kick the ghoul away. Without delay, it was lurching back toward him.
In a split second, Elias had already retrieved his revolver, thumbed the hammer, and fired, blasting a hole through the creature’s forehead. A mixture of gray tissue and black fluid erupted from the back of its skull. The force of the shot sent the monster to the ground where it twitched several times, then became still.
Elias stood up, clenching his gun to the bleeding wound at his shoulder, and peered down to the mess which had been his attacker. It was a rotted, putrid excuse for a man, scarcely more than skin and bone. The tattered clothing it wore was barely a rag and most of its body was exposed. The green-gray flesh was severely decomposed and it stuck to its bones like hardened clay; time and sweltering heat had dried it to a pelt. It was difficult to fathom that a being which possessed such a narrow, wasted frame could harbor such a sheer amount of strength.
Elias glanced at his screaming shoulder and then peered back to the corpse. He could hardl
y blame the vile creature. It had merely been following a deeply stained instinct, an insatiable desire to feed. But it was a damned soul nonetheless; any traces of a living human being had not dwelled within the vessel for quite some time. He considered the unpredictability in the habits of such creatures. Some of them would simply wander off after the infection took hold, scattering their numbers throughout the globe. Yet others were relentlessly determined to cling to that which was familiar, attempting to maintain the monotonous ritual of daily life. This type would often remain in their towns and homes, or simply linger in that location which they awoke into undeath.
He figured this one had been creeping out at night, wandering through the weeping desert in search of meat to quench its yearning. Then sunrise would drive it back to its preferred place within the shadows. Any of the larger desert dwelling animals would have provided enough nourishment to momentarily quell the ache, though the flesh of man was the taste it truly craved.
Elias felt foolish and he was angry at himself. How could he have been so careless? How could he have let himself be caught off guard when there was so much at stake? The wound he’d suffered was deep, and the germ of an undead fiend was now seeping into his blood. He could feel it swarming through him in a sadistic contradiction of sensation, like a cruel, arctic burning. It delved far beneath the surface of the tissue and coursed through his veins. The cold and repugnant bacterial sludge would continue to churn through his capillaries. It would make its way into his central nervous system, branching out to all limbs to deaden the nerves. Eventually, it would breach the blood-brain barrier, and once inside the control organ, it would have the most profound effect. It would penetrate the neurons, killing off individual cells, and then bring them back in a demonic rebirth of the living dead.
Despite this new affliction, he had no choice but to labor on. He would have to push through the agony of his own undying. The fate of his family depended upon it. But time was clearly more of a factor than it had previously been. Every moment was vital. Every step was crucial. He holstered the smoking gun, and treaded off into the desert.
***
Hours later, Elias arrived at the outskirts of the still town. The deafening quiet paraded upon his eardrums and the red sun now burned orange as it plummeted towards the horizon.
It seemed a lifetime had passed since his encounter with the zombie. The sweltering heat of this dying sun no longer fazed him, yet his entire body felt as though it was blazing with fire. The black fever flared to vindictive radiance within him. He felt not only his blood boiling, but all the juices of his flesh, reaching down into his innards. The wound itself no longer bled, but now seemed dry, crusted, and cold. The perimeter of the bite was black and charred. It branched into the surrounding tissue as a network of purple webbing.
Had he not been so engrossed with the pains of the growing darkness inside his body, he might have been stunned by the grim desolation of the town in which he’d been born. The road pierced between rows of dilapidated structures. Doors barely clung to rusted hinges. Windows had given up their glass to the winds. The wooden frames were in rot, food for the swarms of termites. If Elias were to have listened closely, he might have heard the constant chattering of that insatiable army as it fed, tunneling its way through the hollow, haunted wood.
The air was ripe with the ill aroma of decay. Normally, he would have been sickened by the vulgar fumes. But he now found them quite easy to tolerate. Though it was far from pleasant, the scent almost brought him a sense of comfort. Yet still, he knew the truth of what it represented, and so he kept his fingers very near to the grips of his pistols.
And then, within the blink of his eyes, the welcoming party arrived.
It was a lone ghoul, standing not more than ten meters ahead as it displayed a rare moment of staggering into the light. This one was in better form than the one from the caravan. The food source had apparently proved to be more abundant nearest town. It appeared stronger and more nourished, yet it was still one among the wretched.
At that distance, Elias could have taken the thing down quite easily with a single shot. But the others lurking beyond the shadows were perhaps not yet aware of his presence and the resonance of gunfire would sing to their ears like a dinner bell. No longer plagued with the fear of direct contact, Elias charged the slobbering monstrosity, withdrawing his left revolver as he ran. If it were capable, the fiend might have revealed a look of surprise upon its gaunt face. But as it were, the snarling, dumb-founded grimace remained. Elias spun his pistol to grip the barrel. He tackled the zombie to the ground and bashed the handle into the skull. He knew he had to make it crack; he had to bleed the brain, to release the demonic contents. He hammered repeatedly, relentlessly, spilling gore into the dust. A furious barrage of twitches spiraled into stillness and the creature was at last put to rest.
Elias rose to his feet, wiped the mess of a gun onto his pants, and continued his journey through the dead town.
As he labored on, he heard rustling sounds emerging from the gloom of the buildings, breaking the rush of silence. The sun was nearly set. The creatures were starting to stir. Soon, Elias would find himself immersed in the darkness, surrounded by the swarming undead as they searched for their nightly morsel. But his quest was nearly complete. He thought again of his family, and his steady strides charged up into a sprint.
As he ran, the road before him became a haze of brown and orange. The structures to his sides blazed beyond in a blur. He sensed the tortured army just behind, nipping and clawing at his heels. He imagined stopping, letting the swarm take him, letting them feed. He wondered, was it really so wicked that they wished to devour him? Perhaps in time he would let them, but his business must come first. For the sake of his family, Elias pushed these thoughts aside, and continued to run.
At last he neared the large house at the far side of town, putting an end to his dash. He whipped his body around when he stopped, withdrawing his left pistol in a swift arc, ready to tear through the ravenous mob. But before him loomed an empty street. The only disturbance was the dust of his trail, and it settled from the air like a falling scarf. Elias breathed a sigh, re-holstered his gun, and entered the structure.
Minute scraps of light pierced the windows and crept through thin cracks in the walls. It was barely enough for him to discern the shapes of objects. But he didn’t need to see to navigate. Not here. He was intimately familiar with the layout of the place and he recognized every piece of furniture by its silhouette.
He passed through the foyer and started up the stairway, guided by the strengthening scent of death. As his footfalls bore down upon the decaying stairs, he felt the steps starting to crack, their planks letting loose with shrieks and squeals. The moaning pain of aged wood rang out through the house and echoed within the emptiness. Now given alarm to his intrusion, Elias could hear the shuffles of the creatures up above.
He reached the top landing and turned around the banister to face the darkened hallway. There was one room to the left, and another at the end of the passage. The doors to both rooms were just slightly opened and they allowed the red-orange glow to bleed out.
Elias couldn’t fathom what he was about to do. After all these years, the torturous nights, and all the nightmares, he still wondered if he would be able to go through with it. They would both be in their respective rooms no doubt, falling in line with those creatures of habit. He would go to the room at the end of the hall first. He thought perhaps that one might be easier.
He withdrew only his left pistol; his right arm was now numb, useless, and it dangled to his side like a ragged serpent. As he walked past the left-side door, he heard tiny tapping and low thudding thumps within the room. He felt himself creeping near to the edge of crying, but his body was too dry for tears.
As he approached the door to the master bedroom, he readied his gun. A dry swallow attempted to clear the lump in his throat, and then he swung the door wide.
The figure stood at the window, its back t
o the door, and gazed out the dusty pane into the street. Long strings of jet-black hair fell along tattered strips of an old night gown. The creature turned slowly to face him, casting a vacant stare of rotted flesh. A pitiful, haggard look then stretched across the face. The wrinkled skin beneath the eye-sockets drooped in elongated folds, and was plastered there like petrified tears. The front of the gown was tarnished in layered stains of rusted-red.
This thing had been a woman once, a vibrant, beautiful woman. In better days of youth, when the sun still seemed to burn almost yellow, this deplorable being had been his bride. But the dark affliction had changed all that. It had swept through with cruel violence, overwhelming their sleepy little town without warning. And when illness took hold, he had watched it, helplessly, as it turned all he loved into an abomination. He had stayed until the very brink of complete transformation, and had barely escaped with his own life.
Elias couldn’t think; he simply needed to react. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore through the head and out, shattering the glass behind it. Within the eruption of crystal and gore, he caught another glimpse of that once gorgeous face of his wife, before her body fell limp to the floor.
The first deed was done. He turned his attention back to the hall.
When he returned, he found the door to the other bedroom gaping wide and he peered into the obscure interior. All the objects were there just as he remembered: a single canopy bed, a little white toy chest, and the wooden rocking horse he’d crafted from his own hands. The toy animal was still teetering, losing momentum. Its former rider was nowhere in sight.
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