Hell Comes for the Hurried
Page 2
The streets were covered in glass and metal from the windows. I don’t think there was a high rise with a window left intact anywhere throughout this city of the dead. It was a hollowed out husk of a hornet on the windowsill of the world. And, I was walking through it. The devastation was nothing short of breathtaking. I tried to touch things, to run my fingers along the old bones of the city, but I could feel nothing.
I found what was left of the museum. A hole in the ground–a hole filled with fancy things. Fancy things covered by dust and debris. Things that had no place, things like me, relics. I stood there for what seemed like days, though I know it was only a moment. I waited to see my family, but they didn’t show up. I walked on.
The day never changed, night never came, and the sky stayed the dullest shade of grey I had ever seen. The clouds looked painted and hung heavy over me. I tired of the wasteland. There was nothing to keep me here. I headed for a home I had not been to since the dead began to rise. I wasn’t sure how to get there, but I felt drawn, like something was pulling me or pushing me toward it. I didn’t fight it, it’s not like I had something better to do.
I couldn’t tell if time was moving or not. It should have taken me a while to get from the city to my old home, but the sky never seemed to change. I felt no cold, no warmth, no wind, no anything. I thought I saw other ghosts or spirits, but they could have been shadows. I saw no living, or living dead. I couldn’t even find the sun. Yet I was almost to my destination, which was unrecognizable. The street signs were faded, the homes deteriorating; the once well-kept lawns were rebellious fields. My old suburbia lie in a worse ruin than when I left it, which was no real surprise, but it was disturbing to see. It made me feel haunted, though it seemed I was the one doing the haunting.
There it is, right in front of me. A door to a world I left behind years ago. A big heavy door, it used to be red–the shutters too, now they’re rust-colored. I can’t turn the handle. I can barely move. Whatever force had been guiding me is gone. I’m alone. The door opens.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she said to me. Her voice, a song I so longed to hear. Her irises shimmered like warm honey. Her skin looked so soft–if only I could touch her, smell her.
“Daddy,” shouted my beautiful little boy, running down the hallway toward the door. His hair bounced with each step, and his smile was bright. The tiny pieces of my shattered heart ached. Each broken chunk burned. My eyes teared. I couldn’t even smile. They did though; they smiled brightly, as brightly and as warmly as I remember them.
I tried to speak but I couldn’t. She nodded, she knew what I wanted to say, and didn’t want, or need, to hear it. She patted my boy on the head. He looked at me with somber eyes and a grim chin. Their beautiful appearance began to change. They looked as they did the last time I saw them–in agony.
“You know what they say about cowards, dad,” he said, and I did.
I just wanted to apologize. I wanted to take it back. I wished over and over that I died with them, that I held them then, instead of hoping I could now.
“A thousand deaths,” my wife whispered.
A thousand deaths, her soft words hit me like a sledgehammer. All the years of letting the guilt eat me alive from the inside out for one death. How many times did I want to kill myself and end it all? I was a coward then. I was afraid, always afraid.
“Do you know how long it takes for a ghost to die,” she asked me, and I didn’t know. It wasn’t something I ever gave any thought. After thinking about it for a moment I feared I might never die again. I stared into her eyes looking for an answer, but there was none, only the warmth that I’d always known to be there. This was all my fault, not hers, I was the one who ran. She did the right thing.
“We love you,” they said together, and I was forced to watch them die again. It was just as painful the second time around, but this time I couldn’t close my eyes. I couldn’t run away. I had to grin and bear it. I watched every morsel of skin get ripped away. I watched them bleed, and scream, and squirm, and cry out for me, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t help, or change what I did. I was a Goddamn coward twice over, and there they lay in a pool of their blood, twitching as the dead thing swallowed their flesh, again. Just like the first time, only now I couldn’t run. All I could do was cry, not even blink, and hurt. Then they were gone, as quickly as they came. My angels, my demons, gone once again, all that remained was a stain on the floorboards and a huge gaping hole in my heart. Could God be so cruel? I guess so. I was able to move again, so I knelt on the stain–the only remains of my family. I wish I had my picture, now more than ever. All I have is nothing, save that of guilt. I eventually got up and wandered aimlessly through my old home. The dust was so thick it was dirt; covering most of the framed pictures I longed to see. What little I could see was distorted, another level to the hell I find myself in, if this is hell. I’m not sure. I tried to wipe the dirt away, but it was useless. I tried to blow it away, but nothing came out of my ghostly form. I pictured us as we were before the deaders bled the world dry. These walls were filled with laughter once, now just dirt and a ghost chasing after death. I walked around the home some more, then went outside and sat on the stoop. I waited for the tall grass to wrap me up and pull me under, but it never did.
I watched a deader stagger around aimlessly. I followed the clay colored sun burnt beast of yesterday. Wherever it roamed I followed. It had no idea I was there. It could’ve been months, or years, hell, it could have been minutes, it didn’t matter. The deader eventually found someone alive. I give it credit for trying, but it was pretty useless, the lady clubbed it to death. She bashed his head over and over again. Not one drop of blood came out of the thing–it was probably dried up, or bled out. She took her breaths and moved on, as did I.
I never did find out how a ghost dies. I did, however, watch a world die. I watched mankind disappear forever. I watched its walking shadow decay into nothing. I saw other ghosts, other things, but nothing could ever keep me company. I watched the climate change, and the animals all disappeared. I traveled the world time and time again. The landmarks I knew turned to dust. For a time, it was only the roaches and I, but they died off as well. The earth grew hot for a long time, and the sky turned red. The sun was dying. Then the earth turned to a ball of ice. The sun began to fade. Then there was the day the sun went out. Then it was just me and the darkness.
*
About the author
Steve Wands lives in New Jersey with his wife and son. He’s a comic book letterer for DC Comics by day, and an artist and writer by night. He drinks massive amounts of coffee, and sleeps very little. He is the author of Stay Dead: The Stranger and Tunnel Rats, Modern Nightmares, Damaged, and plenty of short stories.
http://www.stevewands.blogspot.com
Discover other titles (Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats, The Seed, Shelter) by Steve Wands at Smashwords.com: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stevewands
Check out the Stay Dead blog:
http://www.pleasestaydead.blogspot.com
Nice words from nice people about Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats available from smashwords.com or on the Kindle at amazon.com
“…focuses on atmosphere and desperation…gruesome and really intereseting, both stories oozing hopelessness…a really strong debut.”
Corey Graham formerly of the Midnight Podcast
http://www.midnightpodcast.com
“One of the most humanizing zombie stories since Romero’s Night Of The Living Dead.”
Bryan Wolford of the Drunken Zombie Podcast
http://www.drunkenzombie.com
“This collection of short stories is brutal and heart breaking. Steve Wands describes the state of the world in the midst of a zombie outbreak as if he were there. These tales will make you feel like you know the characters and are sharing in their plight.”
Mike Benedict of The Cadaver Lab Podcast
http://www.cadaverlab.com
“…one of the mor
e intense and downbeat endings you will ever read… endlessly fun…nothing wasted…no pulling of punches.”
Desmond Reddick of Dread Media
http://www.dread-media.com
“…very well done…makes you want more…a great read… I couldn’t put this down.”
Darryl Pierce of A Little Dead Podcast
http://www.alittledead.com
Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats was also nominated for a 2009 Mail Order Zombie Dead Letter Award for Best Zombie Book/Fiction. http://www.mailorderzombie.com
Table of Contents
Hell Comes for the Hurried
Midpoint
About the author