Early Morning of the Living Dead

by Raye Larson

She should be dead.

  She wasn’t and, while dead men were famous for telling no tales, they also couldn’t tell Charlotte what time it was. If it’d been clear, the position of the sun might’ve given her some idea, but it was cloudy and the smell of rain had grown. Charlotte suspected she would live long enough to get wet.

  She would deserve it. Just ask his two companions.

  One of them moaned.

  Never mind. Don’t ask them.

  Charlotte glanced at the dark-haired man and Jacob.

  The two men had died within a few minutes of one another and now thrashed in their seats, dead eyes set on her, and moaning.

  Charlotte suspected they liked her more as zombies than they had while living.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  They moaned. One sounded angry, the other hungry.

  Maybe only one of them hated her less now.

  Charlotte was still sorry. She shouldn’t have outlived them. She should’ve argued with Spencer more and seen if she could’ve made them more comfortable while they’d been alive. She should’ve tried to keep quiet and not said anything about zombie musicals.

  Seriously, though, sometimes when all the dead moaned at the same time, it sounded like a terrible row-row-row-your-boat. Was it just her?

  Yes, Jacob had said.

  It’d been the last thing he’d ever said.

  Rrrp.

  That wasn’t a good sound.

  Charlotte looked from the dark-haired man to Jacob.

  And then quickly back.

  When the dark-haired man arrived, his wounded hand had already been bandaged. Charlotte had never learned his name–he’d refused to share it with her–but she’d heard that the man’s office mate had bitten him so deeply, the man thought he saw bone.

  He hadn’t, he later admitted. It’d been a tooth.

  The bite had created a weak point, though, and now when he fought against his bonds it–

  Rrrpp.

  –began tearing through the remaining flesh.

  “Mr. Weatherby?” Charlotte called out.

  Silence.

  Well, moans, and a cranky sounding snarl from the nameless man, but no other living sounds.

  “Spencer?”

  Rrrp.

  The nameless man tore free of his wounded hand.

  His left hand.

  The one that had ensured he couldn’t reach Charlotte.

  “Fuck.”

  chapter eight

  Charlotte pressed back into her chair, watching the nameless man moan and frantically reach out to her. It seemed that if Charlotte wasn’t going to thoughtfully become a zombie, zombie-ness was going to come to her.

  Nameless reached for Charlotte. The office chair swiveled closer and then yanked him to a stop when he reached the end that his bound right arm would allow.

  He was two feet closer.

  “You know I might still change and become like you, right?” Charlotte asked. “Biting me would be, like, twice the cannibalism.”

  Nameless’ moan sharpened, becoming a snarl.

  Charlotte took that as Nameless saying he was okay with that.

  Nameless jerked and twisted.

  CRACK.

  Nameless jerked again, making his right arm drop and hang awkwardly.

  Charlotte felt ill. His shoulder. Nameless had just dislocated his shoulder.

  Buying him a few more inches.

  The bloody end of Nameless’ hand brushed at Charlotte’s hand, sending a thread of sensation up Charlotte’s arm. Pain, cold, surprise; her hand was asleep. It would suck when the binding was undone.

  It would really suck if Nameless got closer.

  “Spencer!” Charlotte called out “Spencer! Tee! Tie! Whatever the hell you want to be called–”

  Rrpp.

  Blood appeared around Nameless’ dislocated shoulder.

  Oh fuck oh fuck oh–

  Why was she surprised? It wasn’t like the guy needed that arm anymore anyway.

  Nameless inched closer to Charlotte’s coat covered hand. His teeth snapped, closing on the coat, and yanking it off.

  Cold spring air swept over Charlotte, stealing the precious warmth the coat had given her.

  Nameless released the coat, snarled, and came after Charlotte again.

  Fuck it.

  Charlotte kicked out, catching Nameless’ jaw and sending him and the chair sliding back.

  The sudden movement sent a spike of pain down Charlotte’s shoulder to her wound, making the throbbing sharp. A spot of red grew across her bandage.

  Nameless moaned angrily and began inching his office chair back.

  Charlotte bit her bottom lip against the pain in her arm and half raised her leg. She had not lived this far to get taken out by a guy with no hands.

  The crappy thing was, she might have lived this long only to get taken out by a guy with no hands.

  The doors were thrown open and then Weatherby was running past Charlotte, raising a baton.

  He darted up to Nameless and brought it down sharply.

  One strike and Nameless stopped moving.

  Two strikes and his face no longer looked human.

  Three, because Weatherby was careful.

  Weatherby glanced at Charlotte. At her arm.

  And then turned back to Nameless.

  Four strikes.

  Five.

  “Seven is considered a lucky number,” Charlotte said.

  Six.

  Charlotte had been kidding.

  Seven.

  Mostly. She’d mostly been kidding. She...

  Charlotte didn’t know. She was a bit freaked.

  Weatherby stepped past Nameless and moved on to Jacob.

  “Charlotte?” Spencer asked.

  Charlotte turned toward him. Out of the edge of her sight, she saw Weatherby raise the baton.

  One strike.

  “How’re you feeling?” Spencer asked.

  Two strikes.

  “Like I could use some aspirin. Lots of aspirin.”

  Three strikes.

  “I think we can do better that,” Spencer said.

  “Morphine?” Charlotte asked.

  “Not that good, I’m afraid.”

  “Right now, I think I’d be delighted with four aspirin and a message therapist for my wrists.”

  “I think we’ll be able to make some of your dreams come true, then.” Spencer reached into a pocket and withdrew something. A quick flick of a wrist revealed a switchblade.

  Charlotte slumped back in her seat. Either Spencer was about to untie her or revisit the many, many times Charlotte had cursed at him.

  While unpleasant, the second one might be safer.

  Spencer knelt beside Charlotte. “I was down the hall. I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry.”

  “Someone heard me. If you’re going to untie me–”

  There was a soft ripping sound and then sensation flooded Charlotte’s hand.

  Relief.

  Warmth.

  Pain.

  “I might not be safe,” Charlotte said, laying her hand across his chest. Fuck. It hurt.

  It also felt better than it had when it’d been tied. It felt.

  “I think you are,” Spencer said. “It’s been over six hours since Parker bit you.”

  Over six hours?

  That was impossible. She should be dead.

  She wasn’t, though. She’d survived something that had killed so many others. She...

  Charlotte didn’t know what this meant. Was she immune? Was something else happening? Something terrible and unimaginable and...

  She wanted to be okay.

  She might not be.

  “You said you didn’t hear me,” Charlotte said. She was a little curious. She also wanted to hear someone else talk about something else. Just for a moment. Just to give her a chance to center herself.

  “Mr. Weatherby heard you,” Spencer said. He rose, walked around Charlotte to his other side, and then knelt again. �
�He was standing by the door to the hallway. I saw him suddenly turn and head out so I followed him.”

  “I’ve never had a bodyguard but I think the point of them is that they take the risks and you wait for them to return and file a report.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never been through a situation quite like this one so I worry that Mr. Weatherby may need backup on occasion.”

  “So you’re going to be your bodyguard’s bodyguard?”

  “I fear I don’t have his training, but I could try.” Spencer rose. “What do you think, Mr. Weatherby?”

  “Thank you but no, sir.”

  Charlotte couldn’t say she’d blame Weatherby. In a one-on-one situation against a living person, Spencer would probably hold his own. In a situation where the dead didn’t care if they lost a freaking arm, Spencer might get in over his head. Charlotte certainly did.

  There was a soft ripping sound and then Charlotte’s left wrist was free.

  Where before the sensations flooding her arm were a mix of relief and pain, here it was all pain edged. The relief hurt. The feeling sweeping through her wrist to her fingers hurt. The wound throbbed so deeply it felt like an agonizing heartbeat.

  Charlotte clenched her eyes shut. She’d hated being tied up but she felt good knowing that, if she’d died, she couldn’t hurt anyone. Sitting there for two extra hours meant that they’d ensured other people would be safe from her.

  At least until Nameless began breaking free. Charlotte suspected that, if the guy had succeeded, he would’ve eventually figured out how to open the door and go inside.

  After eating her, of course. Charlotte had annoyed the guy a lot when he’d been alive. Towards the end, he probably looked forward to killing Charlotte. He...

  She’d almost died. She should be dead.

  “Charlotte.”

  She looked at Spencer. Saying her name... it was a small thing. It shouldn't matter. It did, though. It was a cementing thing, reminding Charlotte that she was there. On a terrace, cold and thirsty, but also alive. She was going to be okay.

  At least more okay than Olivia and Chaucer and Parker and countless others had been.

  “It's not that I wanted to die,” Charlotte said. "I just don't understand why I'm alive. Aside from my good looks charm, and wit, of course."

  Spencer smiled. “I think those likely do go a ways."

  "Tell me something good has happened. Tell me the police or government are fixing everything or–"

  Spencer's smile died.

  Charlotte would take that as a no then. Damn.

  "There has been some good," Spencer said. "Everyone in the building is safe. And by everyone, I especially mean the eight people that came in with your former companions. Those eight people are alive because of you.”

  Eight people.

  “You let them in,” Charlotte said. She was the one who asked but Spencer was the one who created a secure place for people to go. He was also a draconic bastard but Charlotte would give credit where credit was due.

  “We both know it wasn’t my first inclination,” Spencer said. “You saved them. I know this day has been hard on you, but you did a lot of good. Let’s get you inside now.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “You’re alive when others aren’t. I think it means you’re immune.”

  And then her brain offered the awful possibility it couldn’t think of earlier.

  “What if I’m a carrier?” Charlotte asked.

  “We have considered that.” Spencer closed the switchblade and slipped it back into a pocket. “Mr. Weatherby, if you could ask Zach to get the needles ready?”

  Unease crept through Charlotte. Needles? Why would Spencer need needles? Hell, where would he get them?

  “Yes, sir.” Weatherby left.

  “Needles?” Charlotte asked.

  Spencer looked back at Charlotte. “I have a couple employees with AB blood. They’ve already offered to assist in any testing we need to do to fight the situation. If I ask, I think they’ll take your blood. If they become infected, we’ll know you’re a carrier. If they don’t, we’ll know you’re immune.”

  “That could kill them. I could kill them.”

  “Charlotte–”

  “No.” Charlotte rose.

  Her legs trembled.

  And then dropped her back onto the chair.

  Fuck.

  “You’re likely exhausted,” Spencer said.

  Hard to believe it but she was. Apparently sitting for several hours, watching people die, took more out of a person than Charlotte would’ve thought.

  Spencer offered Charlotte a hand. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “My answer will still be the same regardless of where I am.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly. You–I can’t think of words terrible enough for you.”

  “Given an hour, you probably could.”

  “I’ll probably need less time than that.” And a good portion of the words she came up with would likely begin with draconic and asshole.

  Spencer looked at Charlotte, and then past her. A glance back showed Charlotte that Spencer was looking at the other chairs.

  The empty chairs.

  “We’ve both seen what happens to the people that the creatures have bitten,” Spencer said, looking back at her. “The others all died within an hour or two of infection. I was able to reach some acquaintances in the military and learned that everyone they’d encountered who’d been bitten had died. Until you, Charlotte. Until you.”

  Charlotte frowned. She was torn between curiosity–Spencer had contacts in the military? What was happening? Were they heading there?–and a chaos of guilt and uncertainty. Why her? Why not Olivia or Jacob or Nameless?

  Why not Faith?

  “I want to protect the people here,” Spencer said. “I’m aware I’m risking two of them by asking them to test your blood. Six people would be responsible for whatever happened. Me, for asking. Them for agreeing. Zach for carrying out the actions. Weatherby for arranging everything. And yes, you, a little bit, for simply breathing.”

  Spencer leaned back against the railing. “Do you know why they’d say yes, though? Why I’d be asking?”

  “To test whether I was a carrier.”

  “In part. More than that, to know, really know, if you’re immune. A carrier could do a lot. You and others like you could risk going out for supplies and know that, if you were bit, you’d be able to keep going. Given time, we’d eventually be able to retake the area. We’d still lose a lot of people. There’s no getting around that. Someone who’s immune, though?”

  Spencer leaned towards Charlotte. “Someone who’s immune offers all of us the chance to get through this. Once we figured out how to replicate it, we could share it with others, give people a better chance at survival. It would give people hope. People would die for hope.”

  Fuck.

  Charlotte looked down. At bandage around her arm and the blood that had soaked through. At her hands, which had dark bruises around the wrists. At her left shoe, which had dark smears of blood along the front, where she’d kicked Nameless.

  Whether through action or word, she’d fought and earned each of those marks. They’d all hurt her.

  If given the chance, would she do it again?

  She would.

  “Would they really need to be injected with my blood?” Charlotte asked, looking back at Spencer. “Couldn’t you put a drop of my blood into a drop of theirs and see what happens under a petri dish or something?”

  “If we had petri dishes or the assorted accoutrements to test things like that, yes. That would’ve been preferable. We don’t have access to those things, though.”

  “And yet you have needles. And something that makes you think you could synthesize a cure.”

  Spencer smiled ruefully. “I have access to some things. A salad maker, for example. We can use that as a centrifuge and separate the blood into plasma and heavy red blood cells.”

 
That wasn’t ominous or anything.

  It was also interesting. Very, very interesting.

  “Did Cooper know about your interesting supplies?” Charlotte asked.

  Silence.

  He did, didn’t he?

  “Was that why he disappeared?” Charlotte asked. “Did he learn about your supplies and decide to get out of town? Or did–”

  He went off the grid.

  “Did he have his own supplies?”

  “It’s always best to have some supplies in cases of disaster,” Spencer said. “I imagine you yourself have an earthquake kit.”

  She did. It had a couple packets of tuna, some water, batteries, and a flashlight.

  Obviously she was hoping for a really small earthquake.

  Charlotte was onto something, though. She was sure of it.

  Just as she knew Spencer was onto something with her.

  “All right,” Charlotte said.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll donate blood. I want to know what you and Cooper discussed, though.”

  “Considering all that's happened, do you really think Cooper is still an issue?”

  “By himself? No. Not unless he was involved in Project Zombie and I don't think a history professor would be. You’re asking me to trust you, though. You’re asking me to potentially put people in danger. I need to know if you’ve done that before.”

  “Ah.” Spencer looked thoughtful. “Before I say anything, then, you’ll need to sign a nondisclosure form.”

  He wanted what?

  “I could sign it and then turn around and yell everything I know from this terrace,” Charlotte said. “The zombies won’t care.”

  "I would care, though. I refuse to believe the world won’t be returning to normal.”

  Charlotte looked at him. She still thought the paperwork was goofy, but she understood what he meant. She wanted to think things would get back to normal too.

  She just had to also acknowledge that the world might never be like it was before.

  Not after so many people died. Not after people saw loved ones and friends turn on others. Not after they’d had to kill their loved ones and friends or risk being eaten alive.

  The situation might drive some insane. It might drive others apart. It might make people prefer to eat a bullet than go on.

  If those things were possible, though, so was the opposite. Maybe the situation would allow people to find themselves. Maybe it’d draw others together. Maybe it would show people that they were needed, that without them things would be more difficult. Maybe.