How was that possible? he wondered. The undead were anaerobic, like cancer cells. Maybe the dead returning was something that happened throughout history whenever life became too abundant. So many ancient civilizations mysteriously deleted from a short meter of history: the Egyptians, the Mayans—hell—the dinosaurs. These sudden disappearances were always theorized as the result of diseases, famine, meteors, etc. But Archaeologists never looked to the dead for a culprit. Even where some cultures were known to have interred their deceased in vaults or heavy sarcophaguses, or had the remains cremated to harmless ash—these practices were always regarded as unique traditions and nothing more. Maybe they were just cultural customs; or, maybe they were precautions.
With the image of a zombie t-rex in mind, Noah climbed the tall hill. When he reached the top, he headed down an overgrown path that cut through the woods. Although nothing crossed his path during the two-mile trek, he occasionally heard movement. The dead were like sloths. They were drawn to the sound of Noah slogging through the undergrowth, but they were so slow that they were always several steps behind.
The trail let out on Irving Hill Drive, about a mile from Alvin’s house. Noah headed downhill, eventually coming to a short, stone bridge running across the Hydraulic Canal.
The Hydraulic Canal was a small waterway dug in the mid-1800s to supply waterpower to the town's many textile mills. In the 1970s, the town connected to a larger hydroelectric power grid several miles away, obviating the need for the canal. It was drained not long after. Since then, it had quietly served as a metaphor for the town’s economy.
Noah could walk through the hydraulic and eventually come up right alongside the Bartlett property—easy—but when he looked over the bridge’s cement balustrade, he discovered half a dozen dead milling about the dry riverbed.
They must have wandered in through a break in the fence and gotten trapped, he thought. Not that they would see it that way. The canal was a no-go, but he could still cut through the backyards alongside it to avoid the roads.
Noah climbed a wooden fence surrounding the yard of a white, split-ranch home. He skirted an in-ground pool filled with fetid water and a body wrapped in a painter’s drop cloth before climbing another fence.
On the far end of the neighboring yard, a man stood with his back to Noah, staring into a toolshed. Noah crept through the tall grass taking care not to give away his presence. As he raised the machete overhead, he paused. He looked the man up and down. There was no blood or wounds on his jeans or denim jacket. Was he alive? Noah wondered. With machete still poised to strike, he snapped the fingers on his free hand. The man slowly turned, and Noah gasped at the steak-knife jammed into his eye-socket. Before a moan could slip between his receded lips, Noah brought the blade down on his head. His body slowly tipped over like a cut tree.
Noah stared at the corpse. Whoever stabbed him was unlucky. Judging by the angle of the knife handle, the blade had slid just beneath his brain. A mere ten degrees would have made a terminal difference.
Something small and dark had slid out of his shirt pocket. Noah bent down and retrieved a Zippo lighter with Rush’s Roll the Bones album cover detailed on the face of the matte black case. He pulled the Marlboros from his pocket and lit a cigarette. Without meaning to, Noah made an unsettling comparison between smoking a cigarette after sex and smoking one after killing the living dead.
“Gross,” he muttered.
Curious, Noah peered inside the shed. He found a lawnmower, gas and oil cans, and gardening tools—nothing of interest to either living or dead, or so he would have thought.
After cutting through several more backyards, Noah finally reached Lake Avenue. As he crossed the street he spotted a few meandering bodies down the road—far enough away to ignore, for the moment. Noah stopped at the end of the Bartlett’s driveway. He unslung his rifle and loaded the magazine to capacity. A machete worked well against the dead, but the Bartletts would probably balk at a large knife. He cycled the bolt and then headed down the gravel driveway.
Noah stood at the foot of the porch, examining the dilapidated colonial home. Its yellow paint had all but peeled off, giving way to its wood paneling, which was gray from years of exposure.
Noah scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it at the house. The pebbles clattered against the front door. After a moment, he thought he saw one of the curtains shudder. A minute later the door cracked open.
“You livin'?” said a raspy voice. “Say somethin’ if y'ar.”
“Of course I am.”
The door opened revealing Jimmy Bartlett, eldest of the Bartlett brood. He wore a ratty white t-shirt with equally ratty blue jeans. The jeans, like his beat-up Carhartt boots, were splotched with paint of every shade.
A small, red-haired girl peered out from behind him. She looked about twice Abby’s age, leading Noah to presume that this was the sister Alvin had mentioned. He had said that Abby reminded him of her, but as the girl cowered behind her big brother like a frightened rabbit, Noah saw no resemblance. Abby was fearless. Or at least she was until Alvin got to her, he thought.
“What do you want?” asked Jimmy. “We ain’t got any food.”
“Did Alvin make it here?”
He crossed his arms. “Maybe.”
“How many of your family survived?”
“Not enough.”
“If Alvin is here, send him out. I have business with him.”
“And what's that?”
“It's personal.”
“You got business with one Bartlett, you got business with all of 'em.”
Noah’s brow narrowed. His lips pursed. “He…,” Noah hesitated. It was difficult to verbalize. “He touched my sister and got me away from my family. They’re dead because of him.”
“If he didn't kill ‘em, then he didn't kill 'em.” Jimmy spat chewing tobacco onto the lawn. “As for your sister, I don’t give a damn who Al shacks up with.”
“My sister was seven years old, you inbred hick.”
The girl recoiled behind her big brother. Jimmy lowered his eyes and shook his head. “God damn-it, Al,” he muttered.
“Yes, god damn-it, Al. Now send him out.”
“You don't have to worry about him. We'll take care of it.”
“No. I'm the one he has to answer to. I'm the only one who can hold him accountable for what he's done.”
“I said we'll take care of it. Now you just wander back to wherever it is you came from.”
“There's nothing to go back to! Don't you get it?” Shouted Noah. “He destroyed everything! And I'm not leaving until I settle it.”
Just then Jimmy was brushed aside by his younger brother, Dakota, who strode up to the edge of the porch with a Remington 870 shotgun in hand. Dakota jerked his head back, whipping his long black hair out of his face, and aimed the gun at Noah.
“He said get! Ya hear? Now go before I put a wad of buckshot in yer ass!”
Noah took a step back. “If you chase me away now, you’ll regret it.”
Dakota fired. A patch of grass a few feet from where Noah stood jumped into the air.
“Jesus, Koty!” said Jimmy. “You’re gonna bring ‘em all here!”
Noah backed away. The Bartletts were notorious for being a lawless brood, and that was back when there was actual rule of law. Who knew how far they would go now that any punitive threat was virtually nonexistent.
“You've made a mistake,” Noah said before retreating.
“No, you made the mistake, ya damn fool!” Dakota shouted after him. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you!”
The last thing Noah heard was Jimmy tell Dakota to shut up before dragging him back inside the house.
Noah was breathing heavily when he got to the end of the driveway. His body trembled with adrenaline and anger. Alvin was in the house and they were protecting him—he knew it. But how could he beat them now? He had forfeited the element of surprise, and they were protected inside their home.
Moans sounded f
rom nearby. The dead that had been meandering at the end of the street were now close—drawn by his noisy exchange with the Bartletts. Noah dispatched them in seconds.
I should have just let the Bartlett's deal with them, he said to himself. The thought gave him pause. Noah looked to the rusted fence that ran along the bank of the Hydraulic. A crooked smile spread across his face.
He bolted, disappearing into the nearest backyard.
Alvin lay in bed with his back propped-up on a pillow. His body wrenched as he tore into a coughing fit. When the coughing subsided, he winced in pain and gently rubbed the bandage, which had been improvised from an old bedsheet, affixed to his side.
Suddenly the door was kicked open, startling him. Jimmy plodded into the room, his face burning red.
“Still can't keep your god-damned hands to yourself, can you?” he yelled.
“Wha—what are you talking about?” Alvin wheezed.
“That family you stayed with? They had a little girl? Seems you forgot to mention that part of the story.”
Beads of sweat began to grease Alvin's forehead. “What—who?”
“Some little punk just showed up, talkin' about how you crossed him.”
Alvin’s eyes bulged. “Noah’s alive?”
“Yeah, he was just here.”
“Come on, Jim, you—you're gonna believe some stranger over your own brother?”
Jimmy sniggered. “If you hadn't done it before, I might not.”
The floorboard creaked. Jimmy turned around to find his sister standing behind him.
“Brandy, get out of here! We're talkin'!”
She ignored his warning and came closer. “Do you think that boy’s gonna come back, Jim?” her voice quavered.
“I said get out!” He shoved her.
She took a few steps backward before falling onto the floor. Brandy scowled. She stood up and ran out of the bedroom.
“What's she mean, ‘come back’?” asked Alvin. “I heard a shot.”
“He's after you, Al. Koty scared him off, but he swore he’d be back.” Jimmy smoothed his hands over his scalp. Despite being only 35, the top of his head was almost completely bald. “Hell, half of me wonders why I don’t just let him at you.”
“He ain't— gonna—” Another serial of coughs prevented Alvin from finishing his sentence.
“It don’t matter,” said Jimmy dismissively. He pulled a faded blue bandana from his pocket and threw it at his brother. “He's weak. Same as the rest of ‘em.”
As Jimmy walked out of the room, Alvin put the handkerchief over his mouth and cleared the phlegm from his throat. When he pulled the rag away his eyes widened. There was a dark red stain on the white paisley pattern. His hands began to tremble.
Just then the door creaked. Alvin looked up to find Brandy peeking at him from behind the door.
They stared at one another not speaking. Finally, Alvin broke the silence. “You come to make your big brother feel better?” He said, forcing a smile.
Brandy kept an eye on him as she slowly pulled the bedroom door shut.
Alvin frowned as the light from the hallway eclipsed. Then he broke into another coughing episode.
VIII
Noah was kneeling in the shed, tilting a red gas can over an old Coca-Cola bottle. The gasoline swirled around a funnel before draining into the mouth of the bottle. When the glass was three quarters-full, Noah put the can down. He grabbed a rag looped around the handle of a Valvoline container and stuffed it into the mouth of the bottle. Then, he threw the rifle over his shoulder and headed for the bridge on Irving Hill.
Noah approached the fence that surrounded the Hydraulic Canal. A few corpses milled about inside.
“Hey,” he whispered. But they didn’t respond. Noah looked around, making certain he was alone on his side of the fence. “Hey,” he half-yelled.
The dead moaned, tantalized by the sight of live meat. They clumsily scaled the canal bank. The first one to reach him clawed at the metal fence as if he thought he could eventually tear through it.
Noah didn’t retreat; instead, he examined it closely. This was the first time he had ever been able to get a good look at a reanimated corpse for more than a few seconds.
It was a man with gray skin and glazed eyes—standard traits of the living dead. The variables: large chunks of flesh torn out of his arm and an entire swath of skin scraped from his side, exposing part of his ribcage. The jagged point of a broken radius bone stabbed through the flesh on his forearm. It sounded like wood when it grated against the chain-link fence. Noah assumed the break had occurred after the body had died, since there was little blood at the puncture site.
As he drew closer, the thing began to hiss. It tore at the fence with more rapidity.
“I hate you,” he said gritting his teeth. “I hate you.”
Another corpse approached, falling into the one that was already there. The fence billowed, and Noah stepped back.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
As he walked along the canal, he dragged the dull side of the machete across the fence. Each body he came across was immediately drawn to the racket. Some dead even came at him from the backyards on his side of the fence. Each time one neared, he hastily split its skull and then kept moving. Noah feared letting the dead in the canal congregate for long. Their numbers were mounting, and he knew a mob that size wielded considerable power.
The sun was setting by the time Noah reached the dead-end of Lake Ave. By then, the collection of living dead in the hydraulic numbered well over a dozen.
Noah moved near the fence and as he did the mob grew more ravenous. The chain-link mesh pushed toward him with an extreme curvature. He could hear bones breaking in the bodies at the front of the mob as the weight of their brethren pushed into them—almost pushed through them. Steel screeched as the section of fence folded forward until it kissed the pavement.
Bodies spilled onto the street. Noah’s heart beat rapidly at the sight of so many grotesque figures creeping toward him. If a group that size ever got ahold of him, they would tear Noah limb from limb in seconds. Despite the adrenaline overload, he stayed close. He couldn't just run off in a panic—not if he wanted to direct the mob.
Noah led the group to the top of the driveway and then sprinted ahead. While the dead took time to catch up, he pulled the zippo from his pocket and lit the fuse of the Molotov cocktail. Noah ran up to the house and threw the gas-bomb at the Bartlett's front door. After the bottle shattered, splattering the porch with liquid flame, he sprinted into the backyard.
Dakota had been in the kitchen eating tuna fish straight from the can when he heard something slam against the door. As he ran to the front of the house, he could see flames licking the transom window above the entrance. Dakota grabbed a coat and flung open the front door.
“Jimmy, get out here! We got a fire!” He whipped the flames with the coat. So focused on the fire was he, that he failed to notice the undead drove shambling up the driveway. But they noticed him.
A moment later, Jimmy ran onto the porch with a large jar of water. He noticed the dead immediately.
“Jesus, Koty, there’s a whole mess of 'em!” He said, pointing down the driveway.
Jimmy threw the jar of water on the fire and then pulled his brother inside, locking the door behind them.
In the shadows beneath the drooping branches of a huge Norway spruce tree, the glow of a cigarette ember intensified as Noah took a drag. Shots had broken out not long after he ran into the backyard. Round after round, the firing went on for what felt like hours. And just when it seemed like it was over, a final battery sounded, like the grand finale of a fireworks show. If any family in Lyons were prepared for a last stand, it would have been the Bartletts, thought Noah.
While waiting for the dead to clear the house for him, Noah wondered what would be left when they were through. He hoped that Alvin would be alive—maybe locked in some closet, like she was—but he knew that was hoping for much. There was a far greater
chance Alvin would be a thriving corpse by then, but there was nothing Noah could do about that. Alive would be ideal. Dead: enough. He could work with either state so long as the brain was intact.
Noah’s thoughts were interrupted by a nightstand crashing through an upstairs window. A moment later, Jimmy dropped from the second floor, landing on the lawn at an awkward angle. He was quick to get up and continue moving, which was fortunate, as a corpse tumbled out the window right after him and fell head-first onto the spot where Jimmy had landed.
As he limped into the backyard, he caught sight of Noah.
“You,” he said bitterly.
“Yeah, me,” Noah replied holding the rifle up to his shoulder. “Other way,” he said, motioning with the barrel.
Jimmy kept coming.
Even though the gun was already loaded, Noah slid out the bolt and locked it back in place for effect. “You take the road or a bullet,” he told him. “I really don’t care.”
Jimmy stopped. His lip curled as he leered at Noah. Then he turned and hobbled away. “I'll get you,” he said looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll get you.”
“No, you won’t.”
As Jimmy departed, Noah trained the barrel on the back of his head. Why let him live? He thought. Revenge, as he well knew, was a highly motivating emotion. It’s likely, Jimmy will come for me when he’s ready, just like I came for Alvin.
Noah’s finger tightened on the trigger, agonizing over his options until it was too late. Jimmy disappeared around the bend in the driveway, and Noah lowered the gun. It won’t matter after tonight anyway, he told himself.
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