“We’re safe. Nothing can get us out here!”
The two teenagers hugged.
Mean looked back at Mount Egmont. The old saying ran through his head again.
“We’re safe,” Charlie repeated.
Mean couldn’t see the mountain. Not from rain, but from the flock of birds swooping towards them across the sky.
It began to rain.
YOU ONLY LIVE
TWICE
Things were better now. She had more free time on her hands, to do the things she’d always wanted. This was living.
As long as you ignored the stench outside…
The world was dead, but Jade Rumsey was finally alive; a second chance at living, another shot at life.
A vehicle—military, judging by the sound—
rumbled by outside. The vibrations were strong enough to send books tumbling from the shelves. Surprised, her sewing needle slipped, pricking her finger. Jade sucked the small bead of blood. It was the first thing she’d had to eat in four days. Her stomach grumbled. Jade made a face, disgusted. She was hungry—but not that hungry. Not yet.
The street outside fell quiet again, and she returned to sewing, trying to ignore the fresh hunger pangs, trying to look on the bright side. Yes, maybe she was out of food, and maybe she only had enough water for another three days—five if she was extremely conservative with what was left in the toilet and bathtub, but at least she’d finally lost weight. That had always been on her list of “Things To Do.” Lose fifteen or twenty pounds. Nobody could say she wasn’t on her way now.
Jade smiled at her own gallows humor. She always wanted to make a quilt, and over the years, had collected an amazing amount of fabric towards such an endeavor. But she’d never seemed to have the time, until now. So there was that. She’d lost weight and was making a quilt.
Jade got up from the chair. As she put the books back on the shelf, arranging them alphabetically, she considered her situation. What else had been on that list of “Things To Do?” Read more. She loved horror novels, especially works by Stephen King, Dean Koontz, M.M. Smith, Richard Laymon, Tad Williams, and Charles De Lint. She’d certainly found time to do that. In the last sixteen days, she’d re-read plenty of her old favorites.
She’d always wanted to learn to shoot, but had never had the opportunity. Since the dead started coming back, she’d not only learned to shoot, but could bring them down with one bullet. The first had been her boss at the Ford Motor Company. The last had been her cat. She wasn’t sure if it had been the cat’s diabetes or lack of food, but it died in its sleep a week ago. Then it came back, intent on doing her harm. So she’d killed it, too, using her last bullet and the last of her tears.
That had kept her fed for another three days. Her grief had diminished as the void in her stomach was filled.
Finished with the books, she turned on the battery operated stereo and popped in a Sam Kinison cassette. His voice roared from the speakers, doing a bit about Jesus and Lazarus coming back as zombies. Frowning, Jade replaced it with Lewis Black, and then sat back down again. That was something else she loved—stand up comedy, and now she had all the time in the world to listen to her favorites, as long as the batteries lasted, at least. Wistfully, she wished her satellite radio were still working. She wondered if the satellite still functioned, hovering in space, beaming comedy and music to a dead planet.
What else? She’d always wanted to have a
No movies, no porn. No family either. That was something else on her list. A family. Except she needed a man for that, and her last boyfriend, Anthony, wasn’t here now. Had never really been there before, either. Anthony didn’t want a serious relationship. Oh sure, he was more than willing to go on vacation with her to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic, and he was happy to drive around with Jade in her 1995 Cougar (the same car that was sitting in the driveway—and might as well be on the moon for all the good it did her), but when it came time to talk about things like marriage and commitment and family, Anthony disappeared. She wondered where he was now? Was he one of those things wandering around outside? Or was he hiding somewhere, hunkered down and barricaded like she was?
Gunshots echoed, muffled by the heavy wood nailed over her windows. Jade idly wondered what was going on, and then turned her attention back to the quilt. It wasn’t like those things could get inside. Jade lived in what she often called “the world’s smallest house,” 675 square feet, no basement or attic, just a small loft over the bedrooms. All of the walls were a light mint green, adorned with Gris Grimley artwork. The windows and doors had been barricaded, and she doubted the zombies even knew she was inside.
“Attention!”
The voice was stern and male and commanding, pumped from a loudspeaker or a bullhorn. Along with it came the sounds of machinery and engines, clanking treads and more sporadic gunfire.
“Attention,” it repeated. “Citizens of Livonia!
This is Captain Conway of the Michigan National Guard. This area is clear. Repeat; we have secured this area! If you can hear my voice, please exit your homes in a quick and orderly fashion. We have transports waiting to take you to shelter stations in Detroit.”
Detroit was twenty minutes away. Could the military have really recaptured that much territory—the city and the surrounding suburbs? Was the crisis really over?
The Captain continued his announcement, urging her neighbors, if any of them were left alive, to come out. Jade started to get up.
Then she glanced around her house. It was small, but it was hers. Full of her favorite stuff. This was her world, now. Her second chance at life—her opportunity to do all those things she’d never had time for.
“This is your last chance,” the Captain warned. His voice, though still loud, was fading. Jade sat back down.
She needed to finish her quilt. When she was done, she thought that perhaps she’d read a book.
AND HELL FOLLOWED
WITH HIM
With only the pale full moon to keep him company, Bob Ford walked out of his home and into the cemetery. It teemed with dead people, most of who were still walking around, and yet he was alone in the crowd. Bob’s grip on the pistol tightened. His ponytail fluttered in the wind, tangling around the shotgun strapped to his back. He pushed his glasses up on his face with the barrel of the .45, and then realized he didn’t need the glasses anymore. Bob found the graves and stared down at them. Freshly turned soil. Crude headstones, fashioned from wood paneling, the names scrawled in his handwriting with a black marker.
He’d buried them himself—after he died. Bob closed his eyes and heard the gun blasts. Felt the bullet slam into the back of his head and bore through his skull. Smelled the cordite, and the blood. Burning hair. His hair. Heard their cries. His family. Heard them pleading as they were raped and butchered.
It wasn’t the zombies that had done this. It was his fellow humans.
Monsters.
