Thursday, September 17, 2009

Tyler, 26

Holy fucking fuck this is pure! was what Tyler thought.
"Hm...this is okay...(sniff)" was what Tyler said.
God I hope I don't shit myself and blow my load at the same time this is so fucking pure... was what Tyler thought.
"Yeah, not bad (sniff)." was what Tyler said.
*zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* was what Tyler thought.
"Uh...uhm...how much you want...?" was what Tyler said.
*munny* was what Tyler thought.
"Naw...that's fair..." was what Tyler said as he peeled what may have been the right amount of bills from the roll in his pocket and handed them to Dingo.
*doitdoitdoitnownownowdoitnowdoitnowdoitnow* was what Tyler thought.
"Hey, uh...Dingo, you uh, mind if I uh, fix here...?" was what Tyler said as he sat next to what appeared to be a huge bag of laundry on the couch.
*cookcookcookcookcook* was what Tyler thought.
"Mmmm..." was what Tyler said as the brown liquid began to shiver and twitch in the spoon.
*spike?* was what Tyler thought as he looked around the table in front of him, his teeth clamped on the belt he had looped around his arm.
"Ahhnn..." was what Tyler said as it entered him and the ritual began.
Only you... was what Tyler thought.
"Only you..." was what Tyler said.
There was a sensation of susurrous syrup.
Suddenly, time was back.
Seconds became minutes became hours and so forth into the horizon.
Now that his mastery of time had returned, he began to plan.
"I'm going to fuck someone before these next sixty minutes are up.
This is a promise I make to you, myself."
Tyler smiled.
Tyler sniffled.
Tyler got into his car and drove West.
He knew where he was going and he was almost certain he would find what he was looking for there.
Fuck that, he had to.
He'd made a promise.
"An oath." Tyler said to himself. "The promise, which is for fucking girl scouts and window washers has just been upgraded to an oath. Capital 'O'. An Oath. That's what I'm talking about. An Oath. I Oathe to be inside someone within the next fifty five minutes."
He paused, wondered if that was the correct usage of the word "oathe" and if "oathe" was even a word and then dismissed the thought.
It would not help him achieve his goal and therefore it was not important.
He pressed a button and the song began to play.
Tyler smiled.
"What a great time to hear this song" he said aloud.
It was not an accident that this song was on at this particular moment.
Tyler had the CD cued up and ready to roll before he'd entered Dingo's.
He liked the song straight...but on the nod?
The song...made things happen.
The combination of the drug and the song...just made the impossible possible...more than that...it made the impossible...
"Mine."
Tyler smiled.
Tyler let the song drive for a bit while he looked up at the stars.
Four playthroughs and hundreds of millions of stars later, he had arrived.
"Thirty minutes..." he said to himself as he turned off the engine and the song.
He stepped out into the night, took a deep breath and walked into the bar.
He would find what he needed to fulfill the Oath here, he was now 115% certain of this fact, but, in case he didn't, there were a few clubs on the other side of town he could hit.
The first thing he did before he even looked around was nail his gaze to the juke and blaze a trail towards it.
"You...are not going anywhere." he informed the tall, brightly lit box across the room.
He arrived, his fingers danced across the screen and images flashed before his eyes; a bill flew, of its own volition, from his pocket and into the waiting, hungry, sly mouth of Juke, the God of Vibrations.
"Take my sacrifice..." Tyler whispered, smiling, "and purify me..."
The song began again, this time enfolding him and everyone around him in its sultry, wet arms.
He loved this part.
When he was in his car or his place, he was one with the song and the song was one with him, but here...here...the song became the drug, soaking into everyone around him, giving him their strength, their luck...
He could...not...fail.
He looked around for the first time and saw her instantly.
"Twenty seven minutes...twenty seven minutes..." he said under his breath as he approached the bar and his goal standing there.
"I'm Tyler. And I'd love to just fuck you forever."
She was shocked, and that was good.
She was interested, and that was very good.
"Well--" she started.
"Wait." he said simply, holding up one hand. "I love this part."
His eyes slipped closed and he let the song lift him from this place and send him back to the stars for just a moment.
He returned.
"I'm sorry, but nothing you say is going to change the fact that within the next twenty five minutes I'm going to have you up against something."
Tyler smiled.
She smiled.
He had her.
It was already over.
"I know this club on the other side of town. They have good music. We can go there for a little and then we can start fucking."
"You...really seem to know what you want..."
It was the first full sentence she'd spoken.
Tyler smiled.
The song was just ending.
It was in the silence between this play and the following nineteen that he was going to get her outside.
The thumping waves of the last moments of the song were swallowed by the noise of the room and Tyler knew he had about ten seconds.
Tyler smiled and held out his hand.
She smiled and took his hand.
As the door swung closed, he heard the first thumping wave engulf the room once again.
Over the next nineteen playthroughs, he would be drawing power from the people in the bar.
He would focus it all on her.
Shit, they wouldn't even make it to the club...
He held open the passenger door for her and when she slid in he saw just how short her skirt was.
He closed her door, walked around the car and got in himself.
Then he took her chin gently but firmly in his hand and kissed her as he started the car.
The song washed over them, so loud he could only feel her little moans in his mouth, taste them on his tongue.
He pulled away and her eyes were half lidded as if she had taken the drug with him.
And maybe she had.
Anything was possible when you played the song while you were on the drug.
Tyler smiled and began to drive South.
Three playthroughs of the song later, they had arrived across the street from the club, in front of the mouth of an alley.
He turned down the song, but didn't turn it off.
He wanted it floating his next words to her.
Four minutes was what Tyler thought.
"So..." was what Tyler said.
It was the first words he'd spoken to her since they'd left the bar.
Her attention was rapt, she was hanging off every word he'd not said.
Four minutes was what Tyler thought.
"There's the club...Smashlight..." was what Tyler said.
She didn't even look at it, but there was recognition in her eyes.
Why wouldn't there be, there were only five clubs in this town.
Three minutes was what Tyler thought.
"We could go in...maybe listen to some music...maybe have a drink..." was what Tyler said.
He could just hear her breath over the low, constant throb of the song.
Three minutes was what Tyler thought.
"Or...we could go over there, where I would kneel down and slowly use my mouth on you until you're about to die, and then, like I said before, we could fuck forever." was what Tyler said.
She didn't even speak.
Tyler smiled and opened his door, turning off the engine and the song.
He walked around to the passenger door, noticed the bouncer outside the club noticing him, and opened her door.
She got out, eyes still fixed on him and followed him into the alley.
As soon as they were deep enough in the shadows, Tyler smiled and pressed her against the wall with his body, pressed his mouth against hers and opened her lips with his own.
Without the song playing, he could hear her moans now.
He enjoyed them very much.
He breathed deep, taking her in.
Even though it wasn't playing anymore, he still felt the song in his veins, being carried along in the river of his blood.
He pulled his face away from hers.
Tyler smiled.
One minute was what Tyler thought.
"I'd like to taste you." was what Tyler said.
"Oh God..." she whispered.
Tyler knelt down, but before he could raise his eyes to her, before he could begin, he reeled, almost toppling over backwards.
Yeah, that would be great. Fall over while staring at her pussy. Fucking idiot. was what Tyler thought.
He looked up quick, but, thankfully, her eyes were shut.
The fuck was that? was what Tyler thought.
Tyler was suddenly aware he was sweating.
One minute Tyler, one minute... was what Tyler thought.
He shook his head and focused on what was before him.
He took a steadying breath and laid his hands on the outside of her legs, just above the knees, and began to slowly slide them upward until he felt the thin waistband of her underwear.
She had started panting and that was fine with him.
He gently edged the lacy construct out from under her skirt and it was black, just as he knew it would be, and it was wet, just as he knew it would be.
He laid them neatly on the ground next to her purse, his hands shaking slightly, and leaned into the warmth which emanated in waves.
As he buried his face in the fecund darkness, tasting her, running his tongue over her dripping lips, feeling her body jerk and twist with orgasm, his vision blurred for just a few seconds.
Wow, I'm in this too was what Tyler thought.
This is different, this is something else... was what Tyler thought.
This is so...good...so...strong... was what Tyler thought.
I could just live on this, thrive on this... was what Tyler thought.
This could be my new drug... was what Tyler thought.
This could be my new song... was what Tyler thought.
This could...I'd love...mm... was what Tyler thought.
I'd...could...eat... was what Tyler thought.

Matt, 37

Dr. Matthew Heller was just getting into his car when his cell phone rang.
He looked down and saw the word "Molly" flash and then made the conscious decision to ignore it.
He didn't like to talk to Molly so soon after being with Cathy.
For him, it was like listening to road work and traffic jams after a three-hour hot stone massage in a fragrant, darkened grotto.
It wasn't just abrasive, it was exhausting.
All the guilt, all the questions...way too much right after his time with Cathy.
Young, supple Cathy.
God, what a lay...
Yeah, he wasn't taking any calls from Molly for a bit.
It wasn't that he didn't love his wife...no; no, he supposed he didn't love his wife.
She was just getting so...hm.
So 40.
Ever since she had turned 40, she'd just been acting so...well, 40.
She was shriller, faster to enrage.
And she cried far too much for the wife of someone who made as much as he did.
There were times when he thought there was almost an unspoken agreement that he'd earned a little Cathy, but then he thought of bringing that up in a court of law with two lawyers, a judge and his wife present.
"You see, Your Honor, I just figured that I'd sort of done my job as far as Molly was concerned and that I was due for some enjoyable sexual contact, some mind blowing sex with a younger woman...you understand...?"
He smiled.
"Of course I understand, Dr. Heller, now if you'll just give half of all you own to your shrewish, forty year old bitch of a wife, you may continue to bang your tight young lady friend."
Fuck that.
Fuck that right there.
He sighed.
Fine, I don't deserve it...Jesus...what was the problem?! Molly wasn't frigid, but sex with her was just...so...joyless. How could sex be joyless?! And how could Molly not want to have sex with me?! Not to be immodest, but I am in great shape! She should be happy to have someone as virile as me! Even Cathy says I fuck like a twenty year old! What forty year old wouldn't want that?
Molly.
Molly wouldn't.
He sighed again.
If this was all just misery, then why the hell was he still with her?
Timmy.
Timmy was why.
They were together and would stay together because of Timmy.
They promised to stay together for Timmy when he was born and it sure had been easy to say that.
But seven years later?
Time does indeed wound all heels.
He and Molly had both come from divorced homes and, man, did that do a number on a kid.
They would be together forever, for Timmy.
Simmering and seething in each other's presences until...high school? College?
God, was that ever a depressing prospect.
Stuck with Molly for another fifteen years.
Stuck with her until he was fifty two.
Christ...
He was good looking and virile enough at thirty seven to catch and hold onto Cathy (she was in deep and he knew it), but when he was fifty two?
He just didn't know.
Could he stick with it?
If he did, he might just be staring down that slippery slope in front of him with nothing to show for it but a well adjusted son.
On the other hand, he could just cut and run.
It was no guarantee that Timmy would go through the same things that he and Molly had...
No.
He couldn't do that.
He wouldn't.
He would suffer in silence, keep banging Cathy until...well, until something happened.
Eventually, something always happened.
He was pulled from the rat run of his thoughts by a sudden itching on the side of his right hand.
He scratched without looking and blinked when the fingers of his left hand came away sticky.
He looked down and saw a thick, yellow fluid on them.
"What in the fucking shit is that?"
A horn honked, startling him.
He'd been drifting into the other lane.
He straightened the wheel and glanced down at his right hand.
He swallowed hard.
The area where that woman had bitten him was oozing pus.
"Fuck me."
He pulled over to the shoulder, hit his hazards and began rifling through his glove box, looking for a roll of gauze.
He found it and wrapped it several times around the seeping wound before tearing it with his teeth and applying a small piece of surgical tape.
The bite was still itching.
He picked up his phone and was dialing Brookhaven to find out if the results from her autopsy had come in yet, to find out what this was when, again, a horn drew him out of himself.
He looked up just in time to see a skidding black SUV explode a man standing in the middle of the road.
"Jesus Christ!" he screamed in a high voice.
He dropped his phone and got out just as another car slammed into the back of the SUV.
He saw the driver burst through the windshield, bounce off the roof of the SUV and land in a heap on the road in the red puddle that had been the man the SUV had struck.
Everything was driven from his mind as the doctor inside him took the controls.
He could tell the person who had just been launched from the second car was D.R.T. based on the way he'd landed, he'd seen the dull gleam of bone yawn out from the neck, and the man the SUV had struck was more liquid than solid, spread thickly over about twenty yards of the road, but he noticed another body lying off to the side.
Maybe someone was thrown from the SUV?
He looked both ways to make sure there was nothing coming and saw that the next vehicle was at least a half mile down the road.
He raced to the prone figure and knelt by its side.
He saw it was a beautiful brown skinned woman whose throat had been shredded, utterly pulped.
"God..." he muttered.
He stood motionless for a moment and then returned to his car to call the police.
He'd dropped the phone on the passenger side floor mat when the SUV had hit the man and, when he bent down to retrieve it, his vision was momentarily clouded with billowing curtains of grey. His knees buckled and he sat down hard on the seat, biting his tongue.
The curtains drew back and his vision returned to normal. He bent, picked up the phone and dialed 911.
It rang once and then a cold, metallic voice informed him that all the circuits were busy at the moment and to try back later.
"Fuck..." he hissed.
He dialed Brookhaven's ambulance dispatch only to receive the same message.
"Fuck!"
The world swam before his eyes again and he lowered his head to the steering wheel.
He noticed the "new voice message" blinking on his phone and, slowly, pressed 1, breathing deeply the whole time.
"Calm down...slow, deep breaths--"
His voice cut off when he heard the first thing Molly said and then his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat when he heard the next thing Molly said.
She knew about Cath.
She knew about the heroin.
"Ohmotherfucker." Matt blurted all at once.
He hung up the phone, slammed the door and swung the car back onto the road, just barely registering the black woman standing by the side of the road as he flew past her.
I guess her throat wasn't shredded per se...
Yes it was and you know it was said a voice in his mind shredded, utterly pulped.
Fuck it.
He had bigger problems at the moment.
I've got to get home before--
"Ow." he said out loud.
He looked down at the makeshift bandage on his hand and his mouth went dry.
The gauze was now clotted with a virulent paste of dark red blood and feverish yellow green pus.
"Thass...infession." he muttered.
Matt swallowed, but his mouth remained as dry as ashes.
He tried to speak again but his tongue only twitched in his mouth like a slug.
"Fut." he managed.
His hand twinged again.
It felt like needles boring under his skin.
"Agh!" he barked.
He looked down at it again and saw the wrappings dripping with thick fluid.
This wasn't just blood or pus...this was...brown...this was...
For the third time in just about as many minutes, a blaring horn jerked him out of his thoughts.
He looked up into the twin suns which filled his vision and opened his mouth to say something.

Slump, 25

Ow, man. Not the needle I was looking for (har har har). And speaking of which...man, already 6:40. Twenty minutes man, I'm out, I'm home, I'm fornication under consent of the motherfucking king-ed, man. Can. Not. Wait. Not that this was all that bad...Those two Jamaicans with the rum, watching those furious Africans screaming at each other in Zulu or whatever and that hot ass Latina who shared a spliff with me...this is the best job ever. And I was right, you get stoned enough and it doesn't matter what you're cleaning up. They piss test me and I'm fucked, but the Rastas said no one gives much of a shit about the night shift unless there's an explosion or something so I think I'm good. That autopsy room and morgue is reeeal creepy shit though. Real Freddy and Jason shit, man. God damn, that stung. Shit. 6:45 baby...mm hm...ow...fucker...shit. Stuff in the red bags is bad, right, but reporting this now? Shit, I only got fifteen minutes left! I got people to see, dragons to chase (har har har) and I'm not going to start filling out fucking paper work NOW. Plus, who would I tell? The Rastas? The Africans? Shit. El barrier del communicationes, hombre... Man, this job is cool. Cathy's awesome. And pretty hot. I'd love if, like, she came over and the Ding was out and I was, like, hey, you want some pot? and she'd be like, yeah...man...no way it's happening man, but, man, that would be the tits....maybe Cathy's tits (har har har). Ten minutes...agh! God damn! Don't you worry, Slump me old scoot, I've got some medicine for you, make you alllll better....then eat something and be back and ready to rock another 11 to 7. Shit, this job is perfect for me. I don't even wake up 'til 11 (har har har). Fuck. This looks swollen. Where's the fucking Bactine...ow...I guess that burning means it's working...fucker...man, Ding said he's meeting a man about some H today...fingers crossed, man, fingers and toes, fingers and toes...fucking red bag...if this shit is so dangerous, why leave it lying around for fucking wastoids like me to fucking pick up? They should like, have trained professionals and shit...ow...red is bad...red means stop...lesson learned, man...damn...three minutes...ah fuck it, I'm leaving...people to see....

Friday, August 21, 2009

Fred Valance, 19

He turned off his cellphone 3 hours ago. He told everyone he was going into a fugue for the evening and not to call him. No one batted an eye at this.

His friends all do the same thing. They have their own special nickname for it. "Going AWOL," "Searching For Sunken Ships" "Visiting Relatives" and the most honest of the answers: "getting high and crying myself to sleep." Stacy was the only one who said that. She was direct. In a group full of people who spend their time trying to find new and more eloquent ways of describing how shitty everything is, no one could cut the carcass open faster and display the offal better than Stacy.

Fred believed Stacy had this power because she was a true believer. When she told you the world was nothing more than a rotting husk of biomatter you could see that she believed it. She made you want to believe it, too. But Fred knew he didn't believe and neither did most of the others. The last time Stacy told everyone she would be taking an evening alone, George and Amy had spied on her all evening to make sure she didn't try to kill herself again. When Fred heard about it he thought to himself 'Posers' and then volunteered for the next watch.

He was a poser too, and tonight he was going to revel in it. He never stopped to think about why he had to hide the things he loved from his friends. He wasn't that perceptive. If he had ever looked at himself he might have seen someone who shows all the signs of being deeply repressed. He made out with Stacy one night and she kept pausing to say 'I thought you were gay.' The third time she said it he hit her. A slap, not hard, but in anger. Things were awkward for a while after that. George and Amy never told Fred when they were going on suicide watch.

Fred put on his headphones, flipped up the hood on his sweatshirt, fixed his stare on the pavement and left for the concert. He never looked up except to cross a street, which were all empty. Every once and a while he would pass someone who seemed excessively drunk. They stumbled into him and tried to grab on to him to steady themselves, but he danced around their grasp without ever looking them in the eye. He could hear them groaning as they fell over. Fred held up his fist so they could see the big black X on the back of his hand. Straight Edge For Life, you Mindless Drunk Assholes, he thought to himself. I Have Places To Be.

The next zombie Fred stepped over grabbed his ankle and dug in with its nails. Finally coming out of his reverie he looked at the creature in horror. He kicked at the creatures head coming up to bite him. Fred's boot went all the way through the softened skull.

He looked around. For a moment he saw what he knew was a dark sort of perfection. The apocalypse was now. The world was indeed rotting, and the rot was alive.

The zombie he just killed (and whose hand still hasn't let go of his ankle) has a bloody pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. He grabbed one. He took out his Jonas Brothers concert ticket, lit it on fire and used the flaming ticket to light the cigarette. He didn't think he was a poser anymore.

As the zombies surrounded him, he wondered if Stacy still wanted to die.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Angel Perez, 44

The first thing they did was tear out his tongue.
Then they filled his mouth with rubbing alcohol.
Everything beyond that up to the moment of his death was just torture.

It really is hard to look at the list of things done to Angel Perez and say, "He deserved it," not so much because his crimes weren't atrocious, but because the punishment went on for so long and involved such horrific acts that...well...it really is hard to simply say, "He deserved it."
The fact is, his crimes were heinous and he deserved the most severe punishment imaginable, but the problem with that phrase "the most severe punishment imaginable" is that the human imagination is a seriously dark and fucked up originator...especially with things the way they are now.
Before all this, the three most horrendous ends Angel Perez could have encountered in this country were death by the electric chair, death by the gas chamber and death by lethal injection, all of which, studies had shown, weren't nearly as painful as people thought they should be, but now that the entire country and most of the planet has been overrun by walking corpses, the menu is a bit more extensive.
Bad news for Angel Perez.

Angel Perez was a rapist.
A child rapist.
And a murderer.
Sixteen girls before he was caught.
Sixteen.
Ranging from eleven to seventeen years old.
He was caught during a thunderstorm burying the sixteenth in a shallow, muddy grave by the West Wall.
Problem was, girl number sixteen wasn't dead. While he was...doing what he did, he'd slammed her head against the concrete floor of the garage he was using so hard that he thought he'd killed her, but he had just fractured her skull and knocked her unconscious. So while he was in the midst of throwing handfuls of wet, bloody earth on top of her limp body, she opened her eyes and screamed as if the world was ending...which, for her, it was.
A sentry heard the sound clearly through the storm and ran over, ready for the inevitable breech, allowing the things outside the walls in, ending this farce the people inside called living, once and for all.
What he found was Angel Perez, covered with blood, sporting an erection, strangling thirteen year old Marissa Bell to death.
He pulled Perez off her blood and dirt smeared form and commenced stomping him before he realized that Marissa was still alive.
Luckily for her, the sentry, Roberts, had been trained in CPR and had been able to revive her. He then radioed for help and that was that.

Perez said he was sick, he said he needed help.
He said he was molested as a child, he said that he had no control over his urges.
He said he was sorry again and again and again.
It was then they tore out his tongue and filled his mouth with rubbing alcohol.
A week after that, thirteen year old Marissa Bell killed herself.
That's when things got really bad for Angel Perez.

There were about four hundred people living here.
It had originally been a gated community on the westernmost edge of what used to be the state of Washington. It had been built overlooking the Pacific Ocean on two sides, the north and west. Beyond the West and North walls were about fifty feet of treacherous slopes, then a sheer rock face, then the ocean. Beyond the South and East walls, death. The East and South walls were secure already, but they further fortified them and posted a rotation of sentries, usually just men between 25 and 40 who had good eyes and could stay awake for eight hours at a time. These four hundred or so travelers had discovered this place before things had gotten too out of hand, but it was clear how things were going to turn out and they all knew that if they didn't find a place to settle soon, they'd be dead in a few months. From what they could piece together, the people that had lived here before had all been obscenely rich and left soon after things went national, leaving most everything intact. Why no one had settled here already was anyone's guess, but it didn't matter to them. They'd found a home.
They were a bit overcrowded but there was unspoiled food and clean, running water and independent generators so they also had electricity. By the time they had reached this place, they were all too tired, too numb to think of a next step, so they settled and decided, collectively, to wait.
For the military, for the Rapture, for the food to run out, they didn't care.
They were just waiting.

Seven weeks after they had arrived, twelve year old Alicia Moore went missing. At first people just assumed that she'd snuck out for some reason and been killed by the walking dead. Her mother, who had already lost her husband and baby boy to them just crumbled under the weight of everything and went semi-catatonic. Two weeks after that, however, seventeen year old Claire Howard went missing. This raised questions. A twelve year old might not understand the enormity of what exactly was going on, but Claire was smart and her family had, somehow, remained intact through the trek. They said that, one night, she just didn't come home. Things continued along these lines for about three months until that night Roberts saved Marissa's life.

Something happens to survivors of a great cataclysm. Plagues, wars, terrorist attacks...they alter something fundamental inside a person. In most cases, life actually does go on, eventually. There is progress, healing, rebirth; but living in the world as it was today, there was none of that. Every day, the people would look outside the gates and see themselves...their flesh shredded, their eyes dusty, their bodies torn and desiccated...walking, moaning, feeding. When a human died, they became one of Them. And They would not die, They would not tire, They were forever. There was no way to truly adapt to what was going on. One merely developed survival skills. One of those skills was the ability to numb oneself, to kill a part of you; the part of you that feels. On the road, people learned just how fleeting life was. At literally any second, your mother, father, lover, child, sibling could be taken violently away from you forever. So they learned to kill that part of themselves. In some horrible way, they had grown used to this numbness. They couldn't hurt the zombies, they couldn't punish them. But that urge was still there. Underneath the numbness...that urge was still there.
And now, there was also Angel Perez.
Angel Perez who was worse than the shambling monsters outside their gates, because he did what he did willingly, to sate his own dark desires.
Angel Perez who had been fully conscious of what he was doing.
Angel Perez who could be punished for what he did.
Angel Perez who was now the target, the focus of all the people's inchoate, abstract rage.

What happened to this man over the next five weeks might have been categorized as "indescribable", but, the thing was, it was describable.
Easily describable.
Slowly, with the aid of the three doctors among the survivors (one being Dr. Chelsea Moore, Alica's mother), Angel Perez was killed.
His teeth were removed, his fingernails, toenails, fingers, toes, hands and feet were removed, his genitals were removed, patches of skin were removed, some surgically, some...less than surgically.
One eye was removed, so he could see what was being done to him and one ear was removed so he could hear himself scream, gasp, gurgle, choke.
Things that should remain inside a human were taken out and things that should not be inside a human were put in.
He was fed spoiled food and poisoned water that induced vomiting and diarrhea.
He was force fed rocks, glass, metal shavings and other miscellaneous indigestible material.
Bone was broken, skin was burned, muscle was flayed.
And the one thing that all the people had in common: while they were carrying out his sentence, they had the blank faces of factory workers. The slack yet determined expressions of people doing a job that had to be done. There wasn't any outright enjoyment, just a air of duty.
Eventually, after five weeks, thirty five days, of punishment, the body of people came to some unspoken agreement.
All that was left of Perez at this point was a torso and a barking, rasping head.
They gathered loosely around the garage where Perez had corrupted his last victim, the place they'd chosen as his torture chamber, carried him to the gate and unceremoniously threw him outside like a bag of trash.
After that, it didn't take long; the monsters on the other side of the gate didn't believe in vengeance.

Did Angel Perez deserve it?
Who can really say?
In the end, he paid for his sins, and those that had been committed against all of humanity.
He'd become their scapegoat; an effigy, a vessel to be filled with their impotent rage and hatred...and then shattered.
A monster had been killed, and a million more took his place.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Paul & Phil, 28

II.

“Do we have an exit strategy?” asked Paul, some time later over their umpteenth meal of spaghetti bolognaise.
“To be completely honest, no. I always thought we would just travel during the day so we can see them coming and all that. If they get too thick, we’ll climb something or go up some stairs.” answered Phil.
“Works for me.” said Paul.
He paused, then said, “You know, this is going to sound a little weird I’m sure, but, since all this happened, do you feel that things have…well…simplified a bit?”
“Oh absolutely,” responded Phil, “ think about it, we don’t have jobs or obligations or anything like them anymore. We have to stay alive and that’s pretty much all that’s required of us.”
“It’s very freeing, isn’t it?” asked Paul.
“Very. The stakes are higher, but the rules are simpler.” answered Phil.
They continued to eat in silence for a bit.
“You know, I was always curious how the whole power situation would go down during a zombie apocalypse. It’s weird that we still have power but we don’t have cable or phone service.” said Paul.
“How is that weird?” asked Phil.
“I don’t know. When you hear ‘zombie apocalypse’ do you think of power and running water and all that? Do you think, ‘oh, can’t text or check my e-mail, zombie apocalypse’? No, it’s all screaming and dying and dogs and cats living together…MASS HYSTERIA!”
Phil smiled, “True.”
“I thought for a moment that it was because there’s no reason for zombies to seek out power stations and fuck with them, but then again, there’s no reason for them to seek out anything else either, right? So why do we have power and water but no phones or cable?”
“Good question. Maybe since power is more of a priority, some disaster protocol was set in place? I mean, so much of our Internet is in Atlanta, but this might just be a problem with our local Time Warner place, you know?”
“Yeah. I’m glad this happened with Obama in the driver’s seat.”
“You think he has some sort of zombie apocalypse contingency plan?”
“Maybe. From what I hear he’s smart as fuck. I’m just saying that Bush would have just nuked everything in the name of his asshole Texan God probably.”
“Probably. One thing I am 100% certain about is that I’m happy these aren’t 28 Days Later zombies.”
“Fucking shit, yes! We wouldn’t last a week.” replied Paul.
“Anyway, as far as an exit strategy, not really sure. We should remember to take World War Z and the survival guide with us.” said Phil.
“Definitely. Ha. I wonder what Max Brooks thinks of all this shit. Do you think he’s as surprised as everyone else or do you think he’s feeling sort of smug?”
“I think it would take a major asshole to feel smug about something like this.”
“True, but think of everyone who said something like, ‘Oh, how’s the zombie book coming along! Yeah, that’s reeeal useful! Stupid kike!’”
“Why throw in the racial epithet?” asked Phil.
“Because deep down the person saying it knew that what Brooks was doing was right on and would not only sell millions of copies, but would also become utterly indispensable and be utilized by most of the literate human race as the sole guide to not being eaten by the risen dead before long.”
“I’ll accept that.” answered Phil in a neutral tone. “Although I think the point is moot. This guy is the son of Mel Brooks. The guy who wrote Spaceballs. I don’t know how seriously he took all this stuff.”
“Probably a bit more seriously than we did.”
“Mm.”
“What about weapons?” Paul asked.
“We don’t have anything here, do we?”
“Just some small knives. Are you proficient with anything?”
“Nope. Although I might create a weapon.” said Phil.
“Really? Like what?”
“Okay,” said Phil, leaning forward in his seat and holding his hands up, “I would have a pommel, like the handle of a whip.”
“…okay…” said Paul, a dubious smile growing on his face.
“Attached to the pommel would be eighteen loaded Desert Eagles with fishing line attached to each of the triggers.”
“Safety off.” said Paul, not asking.
“Safety off.” agreed Phil.
“Then, whenever there was trouble, I’d swing them over my head, and when I was ready, just jerk the whip handle, triggering all eighteen guns at once.” he looked at Paul, “What do you think?”
“Sounds good, but we only have sixteen Desert Eagles.”
“Oh, well then forget it.” said Phil abruptly.
“Maybe next time.” said Paul in a comforting voice.
“There might be some tools and stuff in the Superintendent’s place.”
“What’s that thing Brooks says is the ideal weapon?”
“It’s called a ‘trench spike’. They used it in World War One or Two. He says it’s like brass knuckles with a knife on the end.”
“Where in the fuck would we find one of those?”
“Max Brooks’ house?” suggested Paul.
“Probably those other two Desert Eagles as well.”
“Probably.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“Probably not on the way to B.J.’s.”
“Maybe later then.”
“So when should we leave?” asked Paul.
Just then, all the lights in the apartment flickered, then brightened again, then flickered again, then went out. A few seconds later, there was a loud pop and they came back on again.
“You know, I can’t, with any real conviction, blame that on you…” said Philip, looking around the living room.
“But….?” asked Paul.
“…but I’m going to.” finished Philip.
“Excellent.” said Paul in a satisfied tone. “Shall we pack?”

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Reggie Chilt, 34

Reggie was a bus driver, or had been before the dead people.
He had a good idea to keep his bus because it was big and hard to get into unless he opened the doors.
The windows were gun proof and they seemed to be dead person proof too.
So Reggie kept the bus.
He would drive around and help save people who weren't dead from people that were.
It was just like his old job but instead of stopping at the bright blue bus stop signs, he'd stop where there were people in trouble.
Also he was now allowed to run people over with his bus.
Dead people.
He was allowed to run over dead people.
One day he helped a lady who was bitten by a dead person, but Reggie didn't know that or else he wouldn't have let her on.
Obviously.
He thought the lady had fallen asleep and when she woke up he didn't know she was dead until she bit him right on the arm.
He screamed at her and punched her and punched her until she stopped moving for good.
He stopped the bus at the next corner and kicked the dead dead person out.
He kept driving, wondering why his arm felt so cold and so hot.
He remembered his friend, Sal, talking to him right before his first day.
"You'll do great, Reg. You'll do great. You can do this and you know you can!"
He then gave Reggie a big hug and Reggie cried, but just a little.
And Reggie did do a great job, at least that's what his Boss, Mr. Roger, said.
And some people called him names like "Slowpoke" and "Retard" and "Faggot" when he opened the door to the bus and smiled and welcomed them on, but that was okay, he didn't care.
He was doing great.
But now he wasn't.
His eyes hurt and his head hurt.
But his arm didn't hurt.
So that was okay.
Now he felt more sleepy than hurt.
When it was before the dead people, he'd have to drive the bus for six whole hours before he got to go home and sleep, but now he was in charge of the bus, so he could just pull over and take a nap.
No dead people would get in if he kept the doors closed so that was okay.
He turned on his blinking "trouble lights" and slowed the bus down.
He looked around the empty and saw no people dead or alive.
He was safe.
He would take a nap and then get something to eat.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Kwashon Blumenthal, 28

God, he hated being sick. Feverish, unable to swallow, wracked with chills and breaking out in unwelcome sweats. The bed suddenly was too soft; no position allowed him to lie in comfort. His sheets and pillow were perpetually damp, and he was too listless and miserable to focus on reading or even watching television. Just the endless hours passing him by, dragging slowly like codeine addicted mules through wading pools of peanut butter.

And on Memorial Day weekend no less! No justice in the world. He'd had to cancel the night out on Saturday with friends. The expected drinks, the pleasure of catching up with people he'd not seen in over a month. Had to then cancel his date on Sunday night, the third and supreme date where things were supposed to go to the next level with Rodnesha. Had to bow out of the bbq on Monday. 

Really, what was the point in living? He couldn't even swallow his own spit. Hurt to much, like a white hot nail had been driven into the left side of his throat. Instead, he had spit every fifteen minutes into a cup he kept by the bedside. Disgusting.

Through his open door he heard moans downstairs. Ha. His friends had shown up in sympathy. Kwashon wrestled with the petulant desire to remain sullen and the sudden upswing that their concern evinced. And, ontop of coming by, they were mimicking a zombie attack. Kwashon smiled, and closed his eyes. His friends were brilliant.

They made their way up the stairs, groaning, moaning, dragging their feet. "Oh God," said Kwashon sarcastically, "A zombie attack. What on earth am I going to do?"

The moans paused for a moment and then grew louder. Kwashon laughed, scooted up so that he was sitting against the headboard. His friends gained the landing. Shuffled over to his door.

"Man, you guys--" began Kwashon, and then stopped. The make up on the guy who came through his door was so good he couldn't tell which friend it was. Bulky, wearing some sort of blue mechanic's uniform, face all chewed up. "God," said Kwashon, recoiling. "That's nasty, yo. You guys went all out, eh?"

The man was followed by a skinny looking girl, but Kwashon didn't have time to look at her. With shufftling steps the man crossed the bedroom, stepping on his open laptop, knocking over a pile of magazines. 

"Hey," said Kwashon, suddenly annoyed. And then the man was on him, stinking of rotting meat, big, callused hands scrabbling at him as the simply fell onto him and buried his face into his neck. "Hey!" yelled Kwashon as more people in makeup entered the room. "Time out, yo, time out!"

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Robert Enwalis, 39

He was a hoary old bastard, was Enwalis. Half pickled by a life time of boozing, made hard by too much sun and heavy lifting. Yard work, dock work, factory work. The kind of lean, leathery muscle that can take a swing from an iron pipe and ellicit little more than a grunt. Square jaw sandpapered with salt and pepper stubble, knuckles split from too many bar fights. Sour sweat smell, strong teeth run to yellow. Part junk yard dog, part rusted machine parts, with some tree roots and rock thrown in for good measure. 

Once, back in Cuba, he'd gone 37 rounds with El Gordo, bare knuckle fighting and drinking raw rum between rounds. Had lasted almost three hours. By the time he'd dropped the world was but a spinning deluge of crimson, smeared yellow lights and slurred screams. He'd lost the fight, but had been walking again in two days. El Gordo, the nominal winner, had remained bed ridden for the rest of his sordid life.

Nothing had ever come easy to him. Nothing had ever stayed for long in his hands. In his bed, in his bank account. Homeless now some two years, he'd thought the world had gone to hell a long time ago. 

Turns out he'd been wrong. 

Placing his hands on the small of his back, he leaned backways and heard bones pop. He grimaced. He hated mornings. No fit time for hard work. Reached down and took up a pipe wrench as heavy as sin and long as his forearm. Hefted it. 

The fucker's were come down the alley toward him. They'd killed his old dog three days ago. He'd been ducking them and running for near to three weeks. Enough. Time to step up and bat.

The first was a a young woman. Curvy, her slack, rotted face still holding hits of beauty. In the bone structure, he mused, as she shambled toward him. Good cheekbones. Stepping forward, he shifted his weight smoothly from right to left foot, put his hip and back into the blow, and ruined her cheekbones for good.

Down she went. That kind of blow kept them down. The second was an old lady, her hair plastered around her porcelain skull, her wrinkled face sagging almost off her skull. She went down easy, the force of the blow sending her stumbling to the left. A fat Japanese kid in a basketball jersey took a hammer blow right on the summit of his skull, and smacked down to his knees.

Enwalis hopped back a few steps, took a sip from his flask. There was another fifty or so of them coming. Spaced out some, but it would get intense pretty soon. The alley opened up behind him, beckoning, promising escape.

Fuck it. 

Wrench in hand, he stepped back into the fray. He'd gone three hours with El Gordo. Sure he'd been younger than. But these freaks didn't compare to that mighty Cuban, God curse his fat slarding ass.

A slender man with a ridiculous moustache and a brown suit stumbled over the Japanese kid, righted and took the wrench to the face. Lost his jaw. Second blow crumpled his brain pan in. A seven year old kid took the wrench in a swing upper cut that lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling back into the crowd. Enwalis switched the wrench to his other hand, shook out his fingers. 

The moans were everywhere. Still, he'd fucked some whores who had sounded even more bored. This wasn't so bad.

Skinny black man. Mexican dude in Lederhosen. Woman with her face torn off in beige buisiness suit. Police officer, almost six foot five, big as a linebacker. A pregnant woman, dragging a mess between her legs. A girl so skinny she had probably looked more dead than she did now. Crunch. Swing. Crunch. Down onto one knee. Crunch. Eye spouting out. Crunch, slammed into the wall. Steadily backing up. Swinging his arm to loosen the shoulder, warming up now. 

A moan from behind. Enwalis swung around without thinking, wrench cutting through the air to cave in an old man's chest. Double sided now. Enwalis looked up, gauging. Must be almost nine in the morning. He brought the wrench, slick with hair and jellied blood into the old man's face,  ended his moaning. More around him, tripping and climbing over the felled bodies. No way out.

But then, there never really had been. You can't pick what cards are dealt to you, thought Enwalis, taking a final swig of whiskey from his flask before throwing it in a fat woman's face. All you can do is decide whether you die swinging or clawed down from behind as you ran.

Three more dropped before one latched onto his left arm, teeth digging in. By the time he had knocked it off another had enveloped him in a hug, dug its teeth into the muscle of his neck. Most men might have gone down at that point. Not Enwalis. With a roar, he shook off the zombie like a bear might a drunken squirrel, and kept on swinging.

Crunch. Fall. Crunch. Fall. The ground slick beneath his feet. Breath heaving in his chest, superheated, rasping. Vision blurring. Turning and turning, bringing his wrench down, swinging even when he could no longer make out their faces.

Their moans changed. Became roars in his head, joined the rushing thrum in his ears to become old cries, old screams and encouragement. The lights were blurred, he could barely stand. Wiping his forearm across his face, clearing his eyes of sweat and blood, he grinned at his towering opponent. A mountain of a man. Pain was everywhere. Teeth slicked with blood, he laughed. A second chance to win that fight. With a final roar, Enwalis surged forward, and brought his wrench screaming around, and before the world went dark, before he lost track of it all, he saw El Gordo go down, and felt the sweet, sweet rush of a dark and thrilling victory.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Paul & Phil, 28

I.

“Shit.” said Paul, looking out the window of the third story Long Island City apartment he and Philip shared. “We seriously should have seen this coming.”

“20/20 hindsight and all that.” responded Phil, flipping through the seven hundred and fifty three channels of unique static on the television.

“No,” insisted Paul, turning away from the vista of shambolic death outside, “I mean we, you and I, should have seen this coming.”

“The thing is, Paul,” replied Phil, looking up from the screen, “we, you and I, are the type of people who are always expecting this to happen, all the time. Therefore, how can we, you and I, be blamed for not seeing it coming? Technically speaking, we’ve seen this coming for about, what, twelve years or so? So did Will, so did Sunir, so did a lot of people. But Will never petitioned NASA or the X-Prize or Lockheed-Martin to do anything about it, did he? Sunir went to med school, I taught those little punks in Miami and you grew taller, never really expecting this to happen. And honestly, what would we have done?”

Paul thought for a moment. “Not really sure…I guess. Gone survivalist I suppose.”

“Exactly my point. And what the fuck do we know about being survivalists?”

“We can both grow a pretty respectable beard.”

“There is nothing respectable about our beards. Besides, we should be happy we know so much about zombies. We’re better off than most. Some people didn’t figure it out until they were being digested. We know they can’t climb stairs with any degree of speed, we know to ‘shoot for the head’…if we had guns.”

“We really should do something about that.” sad Paul, half to himself. “I’ve only fired a gun once in my life and I was four. And that ended badly.”

“Well, not for you,” said Phil, turning back to the TV, switching on the Playstation 3.

“Who gives a four year old a .45?” demanded Paul.

“A Republican?” opined Phil.

“Zing.” answered Paul.

“So what do we do now?” asked Phil, picking up a controller and handing it to Paul.

“Well,” mused Paul, taking the controller from Phil, “I’d always thought if this all ever happened that you and Will would be the ideal people to be with, but since Will is off in Columbia, that really isn’t too much of an option.”

“Go on” said Phil, initiating a two player game of Wipeout HD.

“So, like any good hypothetical survivalist, I stroked my unruly beard…”

“As one must,” added Phil.

“And I considered an alternate third, in case Will was already ensconced in some NASA fallout zombie shelter and had neglected to tell us. And, based on his level of experience and insight into this particular situation, I would have to say B.J.”

Philip raised his eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact, the place he’s living in Boston is ideal for this type of thing. A very steep hill, a sturdy old house, a bunch of guys well versed in the now-applicable art of zombie killing…”

“All right. Then we’re off to Boston?”

“Unless you have any better ideas?”

“It’s a shame we can’t bring the TV and Playstation. I’m getting quite good at Wipeout.”

“B.J. has an Xbox 360, so it’s not a complete loss.”

There was a pause in which they played the game, the sound of "Firestarter" sans lyrics filled the room.

“This really is the only fitting music for this game,” remarked Phil after a moment.

“Agreed.”

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Max Brooks, 36

He was completely unprepared.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Jessica, 27

"Oh my God, Roger's dead!"

"Come on, we can't help him now!"

"Dave—"

"RUN!"

"Barbra, are you—"

"I'm fine...let's just...get there..."

They had started out as a group of nine.

Now three were left, almost four, but Roger hadn't been paying attention and had slipped in a puddle of something unmentionable, gone to one knee and, ostensibly, ended his life.

None of the final three had really known Roger, but even if they had, they would have been...not okay with his demise, but merely...less devastated.

Except for Jess.

Not to say that Barbra and Dave were stone cold, heartless mercenaries for hire or anything, but Jess was just more empathic than most people. Even after three months trapped in this nightmare, she was still unable to detach herself from all the death and pain and horror surrounding her. In a way, it made her more human, holding onto these vestments of emotion, but in another way, it made her more vulnerable.

Barbra saw this, but she had asthma, a much more evident vulnerability than empathy. Dave saw it too, but that was one of the reasons he loved her so much. Even amidst all this, even at the end of the world, he loved her big heart and it hurt him to see her in this situation. This was killing her and there was nothing he could do about it.

But she was surviving.

They were all surviving.

Well, all except Roger.

And Sarah and Ben and Noel and Graham.

Phil and Paul?

Who knew?

They’d had a skewed vision of reality before the dead had stopped dying and started eating.

They'd run into them a few weeks ago and they'd had this air about them...something...not quite right...but they had survived this far and that was what mattered right now.

They left, on their way to Boston, and soon after, Sarah, Ben, Noel and Graham had been killed.

And now Roger.

"Get inside!"

Dave had found an unlocked door and they all piled in, Dave last, pulling the door shut behind him.

That sat in the musty dark, panting.

Barbra's inhaler went off.

After what seemed like hours, they heard the moaning from outside the door, moving slowly toward them.

This part always terrified Jess. She knew from experience that these things had no logic or reasoning capabilities, that the zombies would never know they were hiding in this particular place unless one of them made a sound and even then they still might not find them, but that noise...just moving slowly closer in the dark...

Jess silently thanked Roger for his accidental sacrifice.

They may have gotten away with no problem, but with Roger as a...distraction, it was a certainty.

They would wait here until the zombies outside had passed and then either further explore this place or head out again.

This had become the routine: find a place, assess its positive and negative attributes as a temporary hideout and then either stay for as long as they dared or gather what useful items they could find and move on.

This was New York City after all and, overrun with the walking dead or not, there were a hell of a lot of places three people could hide.

Eventually, the sound faded and then there was silence.

After one more blast from Barbra's inhaler, Dave said "All right, let's find out where we are..."

At the moment, they each had a nice, sturdy MagLite with them, plus a backpack that had granola bars, Balance bars, dried fruit, nuts, jerky and as much bottled water as they could carry without overburdening themselves. Unlike the fiction that Jess had been working with for the past few years, this whole thing hadn't happened like in the books. Yes, there had been some rioting and some looting and some places were indeed stripped clean of every single bit of food and water, but the fact was, New York City was just too big for everything to be gone. On an average block, there were sometimes as many as ten delis, diners, cafes or grocery stores.

Food and water hadn't been a problem, so they had decided to flee on foot; they would find an adequate supply of food and water, hole up for a while and see what developed.

New York was brimming with supplies, but the places between New York and most other places weren't. Why add starvation to the list of things that could kill you?

So that's what they had done.

The problem was that the dead were everywhere. And although they didn't consciously hunt or form large groups, these things just happened. They were always awake and "looking" for food. Sadly, things had developed in a manner that left the three of them with very limited options. At this particular moment, they were toying with the idea of making their way to the Hudson River and seeing if there were boats either patrolling for survivors or simply left after their owners had abandoned them. They had unconsciously been making their way west for the past few days.

"All right," Dave said from the top of the stairs at the end of the darkened hallway, "there's an open apartment up here, looks pretty good. There's a fire escape outside the kitchen window so we have a way out if we need it."

Barbra and Jess followed Dave up and entered the apartment.

Dave was right, it was pretty good; a bit musty, but much better than some of the other places they'd walked into.

The door opened into a large living room with two bedrooms directly in front of them, a kitchen to the right and a bathroom to the left.

There was a love seat against one wall and a cheap looking Ikea standing lamp next to the door. Jess twisted the switch out of habit and was rewarded with a dry snapping sound, but no light.

They halfheartedly searched the kitchen for food or anything useful but found nothing.

They each ate some food in silence, and then Barbra and Jess made their way to the bedrooms while Dave set some glasses in front of the door and took his place as sentinel for the evening.


"Jekka..."

Jess smiled in her sleep.

She'd fallen back asleep again and they'd probably missed Brunch.

Oh well.

They could just order in or maybe see if the Brunch place had dinner.

It wasn't too strange to think that they would, was it?

She was pretty sure she'd seen them open after dark...

"Jekka...Barbra's dead..."

...she remembered seeing a neon sign in the window... a hand or something.

Maybe it was a fish?

She'd have to ask Dave.

"Jekka, we have to go before..."

Wait, the place was called Manus!

That's Latin for 'hand' so--

"JEKKA!"

Jess sat up and looked around the dim bedroom.

Dave was grappling with Barbra.

"JESS! FUCKING WAKE UP!"

Jess was alert and on her feet before she knew it, looking around the room for something, anything to—

Dave screamed.

Jess whirled around just in time to see Dave slam his fist into Barbra's face, sending her stumbling back into the wall. He then clutched his neck just below his left ear.

Barbra was slowly righting herself.

"Jess..." Dave grunted, "Let’s fucking go..."

He held out his right hand and she grabbed it.

They ran from the bedroom through the unfamiliar dimness of the living room and were just at the door when they heard the noise.

It sounded like a fist hitting a coffin full of glass bottles and for a moment, they simply stood, unmoving.

Then it clicked.

The glasses against the front door...

"All right," Dave started, "out the wind—"

And there was Barbra, tottering towards them, arms outstretched, chin and chest slicked with Dave's blood.

Dave glanced around the room quickly and grabbed the nearest weapon, the segmented standing lamp, from beside the door.

"I'm going to hold it off; you get the window open..."

That plan seemed to work for Barbra who began stumbling toward Dave. He cocked the lamp back and swung as hard as he could, base first, at her head. There was a metallic snap and an organic crunch as both the lamp and Barbra's skull broke.

Jess was frantically tugging at the window which wasn't budging an inch.

There was another, more insistent thump from the front door.

"Dave! It's not opening!" Jess nearly screamed.

"Locked?" Dave said in a clotted voice.

"Fucking idiot!" Jess said aloud to herself as she reached for the latches on top of the window. They clicked and one of the glasses fell over.

She raked the window up on its tracks and, thankfully, it stayed open.

Dave was looking down at Barbra, who was twitching minutely on the floor and another glass fell over.

"Close one." he mumbled, walking into the kitchen.

Jess was standing on the fire escape and looking down into the alley below where there was no sign of the things.

She helped Dave out as best she could and they unfastened the ladder which made a horrible screeching, clanging noise as it lowered.

They both made it down without incident and were just taking in their new surroundings when Jess gasped, "The fucking packs, Dave!"

He looked slowly up at the ladder when they heard the door inside open, shattering the rest of the glasses.

"Too late now..." he croaked.

It was almost dawn and, in the growing light Jess was able to get a look at Dave's neck for the first time.

It looked horrible. The flesh was shredded around the wound and, in the weak light, the insides gleaming wetly.

"Dave...are you..." asked Jess in a small voice.

"I'm in trouble, Jekka. She didn't severe the artery or we wouldn't be having this conversation, but I've maybe got an hour. I'm already fading..." he trailed off, looking down the length of the alley.

"Dave," Jess was trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, but she was failing. "Dave...I don't think I can...I can't..."

Dave turned back to her, the dazed, dull look gone from his eyes.

He grabbed her shoulders.

"Jess, if you don't, I'll turn into one of them and come after you, you know that! You don't have a choice!" He paused, "And I don't want to be one of them."

"Dave..." tears were streaming down her round, shocked face and dripping off her chin.

He silenced her with a small kiss and smiled.

"I'm not dead yet, Jessica. Let's find a new place before we deal with this."

One end of the alley was a brick wall, topped with razor wire and the other ended in a gate. They made their way as quietly as they could and paused for a moment at the mouth of the alley.

They could see the tail end of the horde that had entered the apartment just entering the building now.

"God, there must have been fifty of them..." Dave breathed.

They opened the gate slowly which, for a wonder, didn't make a sound and were about to make their way up the street away from the zombies when Dave stumbled and fell against a cluster of trash cans.

The noise was explosive in the early morning silence and less than a second after the noise had stopped, the moaning began.

Jess saw the last form that had entered the building pause, turn, pause again and then come shambling out into the bluish street.

The others were following it.

"Dave!" Jess shook him.

His eyes fluttered, opened, looked into hers.

"You gotta go..." he whispered.

"No! You said that you had—" Jess was very edge of the precipice.

"Might have been wrong...might have nicked the artery after all..."

Jess felt like a sunbather who opens her eyes just as the shadow of the tsunami engulfs her; paralyzed, unable to think or even comprehend the enormity of what is about to happen.

"Dave..."

His eyes slipped shut.

She had just enough time to trip behind a Dumpster at the mouth of the alley as they fell on him.

The last conscious thought Jessica had was:

at least I can't see...at least they're in the way...and I think he was already d—

Then Dave shrieked, an unending eruption of sound that told Jess her world had ended.

Jessica began to scream in response.

Their screams merged; his of agony, hers of terror and utter, abject loss.

There's something to be said for the human mind. How elegant. How multifaceted. How awe inspiring. It has the potential to create the most beautiful art, the most intricate formula, to be as complex as a galaxy and as unique as a snowflake.

It also has the potential to run binary.

Black or white.

On or off.

Fight or flight.

Underneath all the trappings in which society has swaddled the human mind, there lies the true Human Nature.

The killer, the survivor, the beast.

It was witnessing this horrible act of violence that finally cracked the facade, which had grown thinner and thinner as the world slipped faster and faster down the jagged slope into the Abyss. Seeing the person she loved most in this world torn limb from limb while these demons feasted on his still living, still breathing, still screaming body had shattered the veneer meticulously built over the past three decades.

What was left was not some cute, inoffensive woodland creature.

What was left was Hell Itself.

And It wanted vengeance.

Jessica stopped screaming. The tears stopped coursing down her face. She rose and looked around her, as if for the first time. The creatures in front of her were busying themselves by stripping the last remnants of Dave from what was left of his frame and did not take notice.

If they had, even these unfeeling, uncomprehending monsters may have known fear.

Jessica's eyes landed on the tangle of bodies which marked Dave's final resting place. She uttered a grunting bark that was just masked by the groaning, snapping noises coming from the zombies in front of her. She then drew in a breath and loosed a bloodcurdling noise, barely animal, nowhere near human. The things paused, looked up and beheld.

Before they even had a chance to totter to their feet, she was on them, tearing with her hands and teeth like a rabid dog. She didn't even register what she was slashing and biting at and in a matter of seconds, the seven zombies that had heard the trash cans and ended Dave's life (and, in some terrible way, renewed hers) were nothing more than seven piles of limbs and rags and muck.

She stood in the center of this massacre covered in gore and gobbets of red jelly and white, green and purple flesh from head to toe, the foul meat she'd torn from their forms sliding from her mouth onto the ground (for some part of her knew, even in this state, that to ingest any part of their filth would mean agonizing death). She turned and saw the rest of the groaning monsters begin to stumble out of the building back onto the street, roared like the Apocalypse and charged at them.

She hit the first one, which was standing in the doorway, with her entire body and, because of sheer momentum, knocked it and the dozen or so that lined up behind it like necrotic dominoes over in a row. Then she descended upon them like a buzz saw, morsellating their putrid, leathery bodies with every ounce of her being. Her rage had brought her to the foot of the stairs where she caught sight of another throng standing at the head of the staircase. It was over in a tissue and bone filled instant. And then she was at the top of the stairs, looking into the apartment which had served as the merest bit of respite for the past hours and contained the remainder of the horde that had caused such turmoil in the last few minutes.

Jessica caught sight of Barbra toward the back of the mob.

Her shriek was soul rending and nearly tore her throat to bloody ribbons.

She saw only Barbra, the cause of this tragedy, this cataclysm.

Jessica clawed her way through more than thirty undead bodies and, less than a minute after catching sight of Barbra, was standing before her.

Of course there was no recognition in Barbra's clouded eyes, how could there be? But Jessica wasn't here in the same way she had been five minutes ago.

Barbra saw only meat and Jess saw only enemy.

She shot her hand out, lightening quick, and tore Barbra's jaw from her face with a sound like a chicken being ripped in half.

Jessica felt the vibrations go through her body and liked it.

She dropped the jaw on the floor and began to systematically tear Barbra apart: her hands, arms, ears, eyes, head...it was the truest form of catharsis she'd ever experienced.

After utterly dispatching with Barbra, Jess fell, unconscious, to the floor in a slurry of undead bits.


When she woke, the sun was shining bright, making the fetid meat in the room produce an almost physical stink. She rose shakily to her feet and stared about her at the chaos she'd created. Then she began to weep, her small body pulsing with the sobs that escaped her. She half sat, half fell to the slick floor and cried, her tears cutting clean tracks through the crusted ichor on her face.

Dave was dead.

They were all dead but her.

The world was dead and it only kept spinning because it hadn't yet realized the fact.

After a while, she stopped crying and took in a deep, cleansing breath.

At least she wouldn't have to be a part of this farce much longer.

She looked down at herself and saw the dozens of tiny cuts and scratches covering her hands and arms.

How long had Dave said this stuff takes to change you?

She couldn't remember, not that it mattered, she wasn't going to sit here and turn into one of those things, feeling herself die and be reborn as some hideous cannibal. She slowly staggered to her feet again. Her body ached all over and her mouth tasted of unspeakable foulness. She reached the sink and washed her mouth out with the rust tasting water from the tap. She rinsed her hands, arms and face in the cool water and stood for a moment, dripping and just staring.

Then she nodded almost imperceptibly, walked over to the oven and turned the knob. The faint hiss told her there was still gas in these pipes. That was good. She found their abandoned packs in the bedrooms and located the pack of matches at the bottom of Barbra's.

Barbra had been a smoker.

An asthmatic smoker.

Brilliant.

She made her way back to the kitchen and closed the window. The air was already taking on a wavy quality. She went back to the bedroom she'd spent her last night in and changed out of her filthy rags into a clean shirt and pants. Back in the living room she dragged the love seat over to the kitchen and placed it diagonally against the cabinets under the sink and the wall with the window set into it, forming a small barricade. Then she made her way carefully through the abattoir in the living room, down the slimy stairs and outside.

She saw a small group of the things milling around at the end of the street, looking up at a pigeon perched on a lamppost and another larger group further up the street. None of them had seen her so she just sat, feeling the sun, warm and fresh, on her battered body for a few quiet moments. Eventually, she opened her eyes, and stood, taking note of the stiffness that was settling into her bones and muscles already.

She walked down the street, moving at a fast walk past the small group focused on the bird until she was in between them and the group further away.

Then she yelled at the top of her voice.

Slowly, very slowly, the group at the lamppost and the larger group began to stumble towards her, moaning and clutching.

Within five minutes she'd managed to attract about a hundred of the things, always being sure to stay well in front of the horde and well away from any tight spaces. She led them back to the apartment, the stiffness slowly turning to numbness throughout the trek.

Finally, she'd led the majority into the apartment building. They filled the entry way, the hallway, the stairs and the living room.

She took her place behind the love seat, still a good ten feet from the nearest one and went for the matches on the counter, knocking them onto the floor. She sat down, tried to pick them up again and failed. Her third attempt was successful. She looked around the room and everything appeared underwater; whether this was the gas or her vision, she wasn't sure.

She opened the matchbook and tried to tear out a match, but she couldn't make her fingers close on it. Her index finger did what it was told, but her thumb just twitched feebly.

"No..." she croaked.

She took a deep breath, which caused the world to strobe in purple and black, and tried again, but this time the thumb only trembled the faintest bit.

"No...no..." she said again.

She suddenly clamped her teeth down on her tongue and the world instantly flared with color.

As she tore the match out and flipped the pack over, she registered that her blood didn't have the rich, vital, iron taste it usually did.

She scratched the match against the rough strip but it wasn't hard enough.

The world was turning purple and black again.

Jessica bit her tongue once more, much harder this time and felt part of it separate from the rest.

It lay in her mouth like cold rubber and she choked it out.

She wasn't bleeding anymore.

Her stomach knotted painfully and as she pressed the match head to the strip one last time, she was swallowed by their shadows.

"No...Dave...n-"