Damage in an Undead Age

by A. M. Geever

  “I just needed downtime after what it took to get us here,” he murmured to himself. “It’ll come back. It always does.”

  Miranda’s right, he decided. Knowing no one waited for them had made the lifeless city feel more desolate. Its loneliness had spooked him, and he had worried the feeling of disconnection like a dog worried a bone. He just needed to relax and recognize the disconnection and loneliness for what it was: a feeling that would pass.

  Doug looked one last time at the hapless creatures falling off the bridge, at the decaying city that awaited them. A lightness began to fill his chest, chasing out the dread, and he grinned. There was nothing to be apprehensive about. It was just another dead city filled with zombies.

  He could do that shit all day long.

  They landed the yacht’s dinghy almost directly across from the tip of Ross Island, a teardrop-shaped atoll in the Willamette River that proved an ideal hiding place to moor the yacht. Doug had studied maps of Seattle so much that he felt he could find his way most anywhere there. Portland, not so much. The only map of Portland they had was ripped in half, which might have felt indicative of how things were going if Doug believed in omens. Miranda had spent summers in Portland with her grandparents, and Oregon Health and Science University was on their half map. It was good enough for now.

  Doug saw Mario check the five-foot-long length of nylon rope that attached Jeremiah to him for what seemed the zillionth time.

  “Are you okay with that length, Mario? We can change it.”

  Mario shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, the slightest trace of dissatisfaction in his voice.

  Miranda rolled her eyes at Doug. Mario had wanted Jeremiah tied to Miranda ‘because of her knee,’ but Doug had overruled him. Mario had conceded with grace, which Doug could tell Miranda had appreciated. After the continual test of wills between she and Connor over her safety, Mario’s faith in her ability to gauge risks, the mast-climbing incident notwithstanding, had to be a relief.

  “Then let’s go,” Doug said.

  Jeremiah shot Doug a venomous glare as Mario led the way. He was gagged, but it was self-inflicted. Jeremiah’s predilection for shouting when the gag wasn’t in place in order to attract zombies made it necessary. Otherwise, Doug might have felt bad about it.

  Doug and Miranda brought up the rear, to both stay near Jeremiah and to prevent him from getting any bright ideas about using the rope to incapacitate Mario. Delilah trotted alongside Miranda but occasionally took off into the high grass to chase a rabbit.

  “Welcome to Portland, kiddos,” Doug said. “It’s going to be great day. I can feel it.”

  5

  Mario began to relax when they reached the elevated pedestrian bridge where they could cross I-5 without incident.

  “Miranda,” Doug said, pointing straight ahead. “Is that it?”

  They followed Doug’s pointing finger. A graceful curve arced the bridge to the left, its end hidden by a riot of greenery. On a high bluff several miles beyond, a cluster of buildings poked over the tree line.

  She nodded. “That’s it. OHSU.”

  The buildings were miniaturized by distance but still tantalizingly close. If everything went right, they would be there in a couple hours. If they were lucky, they would find the right equipment so that Mario could begin his work to recreate the vaccine using Jeremiah’s immune blood. If he could do that, they could make the San Jose vaccine and the corrupt political system it propped up irrelevant. And potentially save the human race from extinction.

  That’s a lot of ifs, he thought.

  Miranda said, “The tram overhead went straight up there. I took that ride so many times as a kid.”

  Everyone, even Jeremiah, looked up. Sagging aerial tram lines that ran the length of the bridge and then ascended to the bluff in the distance were dotted with two suspended passenger cars.

  “The damn thing could have at least fallen down by now instead of rubbing it in that we can’t use it,” Doug said.

  Miranda unzipped her jacket and pulled out the map, then crouched down to spread it out.

  “I want to make sure I have this route down. There are lots of twists and turns. We need to take at least one staircase that we can’t afford to miss.”

  While Miranda studied the map, Mario took in the gridlocked I-5. Some cars were in their own lane, while others skewed across the dotted lines where they had smashed into other cars. Someone had probably tried to squeeze into another lane before someone else thwarted not only the offending driver, but everyone else. Or maybe the driver had turned into a zombie, and safe navigation of a vehicle no longer commanded its attention. Countless car doors were permanently rusted open with springs sticking through weather-beaten upholstery.

  “So many still have zombies inside,” Mario said.

  The muffled thumps of desiccated faces and mummified limbs banging on dirty, rolled-up windows grew louder.

  Doug nodded. “Stuck in traffic forever because their spouse who never listened just had to take the fucking freeway.”

  Mario snorted, even though the spectacle below them was depressing. So many people had died.

  “They lived such small lives,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mario shrugged. “Most people never changed the world in big ways. They just lived their lives. Went to work, paid their taxes, got married and had kids. Not many people founded the next Microsoft.”

  “Oh,” Doug said, sounding amused. “Like you, you mean.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Mario said, laughing.

  “Sure you didn’t,” Doug said, giving him a mocking side-eye. “They did most of the living, though. And it’s all gone.”

  Mario looked at the trapped zombies. They had been people once, and their regular, workaday lives had been everything to them. The good and bad, the ups and downs, the questions and confusion and messiness of life had been the same for every single one of them. What does this life mean? Am I loved, and do I have people to love? Did I leave this world a little better than I found it? When all those small lives with big questions were put together, they were as vast and significant as the universe. And almost all of them were gone, as if they had never existed in the first place.

  The rustle of the map pulled Mario’s attention from the poor souls trapped in the cars below. Miranda looked up at him, expectant, completely unaware that she was more than the woman he loved. She was his answer to the questions people still asked about their small lives.

  Am I loved, and do I have someone to love?

  Yes, I do.

  Will I leave this world a little better than I found it?

  If I’m lucky.

  Miranda represented every undeserved blessing bestowed on him these past few months.

  Love.

  Forgiveness.

  The hope of redemption.

  She tucked the map inside her jacket as she stood. She took his hand, her smile driving away the last whispers of the dead, lost world.

  “Come on,” she said, grinning. “Let’s go save the world.”

  Ninety minutes later, Mario was beginning to indulge in cautious optimism that they just might make it to OHSU without any mishaps. They had encountered zombies along the way, necessitating some backtracking, but so far, their journey had been almost uneventful. The bridge had deposited them in a residential neighborhood that looked so much like the Bay Area that he could have mistaken one for the other. Snug Craftsman bungalows, rambling Prairie style homes, and Victorian Painted Ladies lined the streets. Their bright colors had faded; shattered roof slates littered the sidewalks, and sagging porches and broken windows abounded, but once they had been beautiful.

  They were looking for a park near a second set of stairs that would take them up to Terwilliger Boulevard. Portlanders had loved their pedestrian staircases. They were not going to bother with the stairs since they were sure to be overgrown. They would scramble up the adjacent hillside, but the stairs were the la
ndmark that would tell them they were in the right place. From the top of the stairs, it was just half a mile farther.

  She tried to hide it, but Miranda had developed a slight limp in the last ten minutes. They needed to get somewhere safe and rest, and not just because of Miranda. If he remained tethered to Jeremiah much longer, Mario was going to lose his mind. Five feet of rope had seemed long at first, but when they climbed over a wall or barricade made of cars, it required contortions that Jeremiah made harder than necessary. He was also unable to move out of earshot when they had to remove the gag to give him a drink of water.

  This neighborhood had more zombies than the last. The undead staggered into the streets as they detected the live prey. Hopefully, there would be fewer zombies once they made it up the hillside. So far they had handled the numbers without needing to huddle around Jeremiah for protection, but that could change in a heartbeat. A heartbeat was how long it had taken him and Doug to get trapped in the CVS in Seattle.

  Mario tipped the water bottle to take a sip. He heard a sudden patter of feet, then Jeremiah banged into him so hard he had to pinwheel his arms to stay upright. The water bottle landed on the asphalt with a dull clunk, followed by a wet glug-glug-glug. Mario whirled around as soon as his balance stabilized, expecting to see an influx of zombies behind them, but the street was clear.

  He rounded on Jeremiah. “What the fuck?”

  Jeremiah started mumbling unintelligibly through the gag and gesticulating at the ground with his bound hands.

  “You want a drink of water?”

  Jeremiah nodded. The muscles of Mario’s chest and abdomen tightened, flooding his body with energy. A flush of heat swept from his chest to his hairline, and his hands balled into fists.

  “Do not fucking do that again,” he said, voice sharp and anger mushrooming. If they did not need Jeremiah so much, he would wrap the rope around his neck and strangle him, right here, right now. “You don’t need to almost knock me over to ask.”

  “Everything okay back there?”

  Mario looked ahead as he picked up the water bottle. Doug and Miranda had gotten ahead of them. Delilah pranced about, a stick in her mouth. She shook her head as if killing it, trying to entice someone to play with her.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said to Doug.

  He loosened the gag, and Jeremiah pulled it from his mouth. Mario shoved the water bottle into his hands and watched Jeremiah suck on it greedily, practically snorting like a piglet at its mother’s teat.

  Then he started talking.

  “We have been meditating on the punishments We will mete out upon you when Our Justice is served.”

  “Omifuckinggod,” Mario muttered, his desire to scream with frustration instantaneous.

  He stuffed the gag back into Jeremiah’s mouth and tightened it before he gave in to the impulse to beat their captive to a pulp. He grabbed Jeremiah by his upper arm and strong-armed him double-quick to the corner where Miranda and Doug waited. Mario realized his face must reflect his murderous anger when he saw how amused Miranda looked. Doug’s grin meant that whatever was about to come out of Doug’s mouth was just going to piss him off more.

  “Don’t say it, Doug,” he said. “Just don’t.”

  Doug schooled his features into innocence and flipped his palm upward in an airy ‘Whatever can you mean?’ gesture.

  “This is it. Almost there,” Miranda said. She gestured to the hillside in front of them. The overgrown trees, shrubs, briars, and grasses looked as impenetrable as the deep, dark forests of fairy tales.

  “Awesome,” Mario said through gritted teeth.

  “Miranda and I will bushwhack,” Doug said, pulling a machete from its sheath. “You probably shouldn’t have a big blade when you’re attached—”

  “Agreed,” Mario cut in, working to calm himself. Miranda looked at him through narrowed eyes, her brow wrinkled. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m just— I’m fine.”

  She leaned in so close that Mario could see the gold flecks in her eyes. Nestled within the cornflower-blue iris, they looked like tiny dapples of sunshine.

  “You are fine,” she said, her eyes flicking down to the rope, then back up. She bit her lower lip, then smiled. “Maybe we play with that later, Doctor Santorello.”

  Doug and Miranda took turns so that they would not tire at the same time. They worked as quickly and efficiently as possible, but there was no way to make bushwhacking quiet. The hillside proved as impassible as Mario’s first impression. The upside was there were no zombies wandering the hillside to worry about. The downside was a growing group of zombies milling around in the T-shaped intersection at the foot of the hill. Unable to follow because of the steep hillside, their moans, coupled with the noise of the machetes, attracted more zombies. But they were a secondary concern. It was what might be in the road above that concerned Mario.

  Deal with it when we get there, he reminded himself.

  You worked the problem in front of you before you worked the next one. His job right now was to bring up the rear of the line and mind Jeremiah. Future problems would be waiting for them like the nasty little bastards they were.

  Doug turned back just as Delilah’s tail disappeared into the scrub ahead. In a low voice he said, “We’re almost there. I can just make out what’s left of the road.”

  Miranda punched a fist into the air in silent celebration. Relief flooded Mario’s nervous system, relaxing muscles that he had not realized were filled with tension.

  Jeremiah turned back and looked at him. Something about the way he moved set off alarm bells. Something was very wrong. Mario didn’t know what it was until Jeremiah leaped.

  He had cut the tether.

  His shoulder slammed into Mario’s solar plexus, knocking him to the ground. Mario rolled down the path, ass over teakettle. The sharp, stumpy remains of shorn saplings stabbed at him. Remnants of brambles scratched his face. He threw his arms out, scrabbling against rocks and loamy soil. A blur of movement flashed by.

  Mario scrambled to his feet. Jeremiah was almost at the foot of the hill. A flash of yellow nylon rope fluttered into view. The other end hung limp from where it was threaded through the belt loops of Mario’s jeans.

  Mario crashed down the hillside, Miranda and Doug shouting behind him. The moans of the zombies below grew louder with the noise of his and Jeremiah’s reckless flight. The zombies in the intersection below rippled away as Jeremiah’s feet hit the pavement.

  “Come to Us, Our children,” Jeremiah shouted, now free of the gag. “Come to Our defense! Be Our Judgment!”

  Mario crashed into the street, barreling into the waiting zombies. He struck out blindly, pushing and shoving. A cold hand clamped over his wrist, twisting him around. He reached for the knife on his belt.

  The sheath was empty.

  He shoved his index and middle fingers into the zombie’s eye socket. It had been a woman, slight of frame. He didn’t know if his fingers were long enough to reach the brain. And if they did, were they deep enough to kill it? The eyeball parted under his fingers like jelly, his gloves sparing him the slimy mess but not the cold. He wriggled his fingers, still on the move so that other shambling zombies could not catch hold of him. The weight of the zombie sagged against his hand. The grip on his wrist relaxed. He pushed the limp form away and raced after Jeremiah.

  Jeremiah reached the first intersection ahead. Mario shrugged out of his heavy pack, never slowing down. Without the pack he felt faster, lighter, arms and legs pumping to narrow Jeremiah’s head start. He darted around zombies, ever intent on his target. At the dead end ahead, where they had scrambled up a small earthen embankment, Jeremiah hesitated. He looked right and left for a different escape route before scrambling over the embankment and dropping out of sight.

  Mario gained ground, blood rushing in his ears. He vaulted over the embankment, crashing through the overgrowth. He tumbled to the wide road, the crumbled asphalt loose beneath his feet.

  Jeremiah looked ove
r his shoulder. Delilah flashed past Mario, a blur of tawny golden-brown. Mario dredged up a final, desperate burst of speed, forcing his body to bend to his will.

  Ten feet behind.

  Nine.

  He could hear Jeremiah’s labored breathing. Delilah was almost at Jeremiah’s heels.

  Seven feet.

  He could see the runnels of sweat running down Jeremiah’s neck.

  Five feet.

  Delilah leaped. Jeremiah cried out as the pit bull collided with the small of his back, causing him to stumble.

  Mario slammed into the fleeing man, tackling him to the ground. Delilah yipped, caught between the two men whose combined momentum sent them tumbling. Mario held tight, arms yanked and twisted as they rolled over the pavement. Pain slashed through his injured shoulder, radiating down his arm and side and up into his neck. When they finally stopped rolling, he dragged himself over Jeremiah, too exhausted to do more than use his body weight to detain him.

  They lay on the road, gasping for breath. Delilah sniffed his ear, panting against Mario’s skin, then began to lick his face. A few moments later, Miranda and Doug’s feet echoed on the crumbling asphalt. The sound of their footsteps drew near. They both dropped to their knees beside Mario and Jeremiah.

  No one said anything at first. After a full minute Miranda said, “That was a…hell of…a steeplechase.”

  Mario tried to answer but was gripped by a hacking cough. A searing pain ripped through his side. He rolled off Jeremiah, onto his hands. Delilah nudged his side with her nose and whimpered.

  “You’re bleeding,” Doug said.

  A steady, heavy drip of blood hit the pavement under the right side of Mario’s body where Delilah had nudged him. Gently, he moved the dog away and touched his side. His hand came away bloody.

  I really need to get new chain mail, he thought.

  Aloud he said, “I think I found the knife Jeremiah lifted from me.”