“He's after you, Al. Koty scared him off, but he swore he’d be back.” Jimmy smoothed his hands over his scalp. Despite being only 35, the top of his head was almost completely bald. “Hell, half of me wonders why I don’t just let him at you.”
“He ain't— gonna—” Another serial of coughs prevented Alvin from finishing his sentence.
“It don’t matter,” said Jimmy dismissively. He pulled a faded blue bandana from his pocket and threw it at his brother. “He's weak. Same as the rest of ‘em.”
As Jimmy walked out of the room, Alvin put the handkerchief over his mouth and cleared the phlegm from his throat. When he pulled the rag away his eyes widened. There was a dark red stain on the white paisley pattern. His hands began to tremble.
Just then the door creaked. Alvin looked up to find Brandy peeking at him from behind the door.
They stared at one another not speaking. Finally, Alvin broke the silence. “You come to make your big brother feel better?” He said, forcing a smile.
Brandy kept an eye on him as she slowly pulled the bedroom door shut.
Alvin frowned as the light from the hallway eclipsed. Then he broke into another coughing episode.
VIII
Noah was kneeling in the shed, tilting a red gas can over an old Coca-Cola bottle. The gasoline swirled around a funnel before draining into the mouth of the bottle. When the glass was three quarters-full, Noah put the can down. He grabbed a rag looped around the handle of a Valvoline container and stuffed it into the mouth of the bottle. Then, he threw the rifle over his shoulder and headed for the bridge on Irving Hill.
Noah approached the fence that surrounded the Hydraulic Canal. A few corpses milled about inside.
“Hey,” he whispered. But they didn’t respond. Noah looked around, making certain he was alone on his side of the fence. “Hey,” he half-yelled.
The dead moaned, tantalized by the sight of live meat. They clumsily scaled the canal bank. The first one to reach him clawed at the metal fence as if he thought he could eventually tear through it.
Noah didn’t retreat; instead, he examined it closely. This was the first time he had ever been able to get a good look at a reanimated corpse for more than a few seconds.
It was a man with gray skin and glazed eyes—standard traits of the living dead. The variables: large chunks of flesh torn out of his arm and an entire swath of skin scraped from his side, exposing part of his ribcage. The jagged point of a broken radius bone stabbed through the flesh on his forearm. It sounded like wood when it grated against the chain-link fence. Noah assumed the break had occurred after the body had died, since there was little blood at the puncture site.
As he drew closer, the thing began to hiss. It tore at the fence with more rapidity.
“I hate you,” he said gritting his teeth. “I hate you.”
Another corpse approached, falling into the one that was already there. The fence billowed, and Noah stepped back.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
As he walked along the canal, he dragged the dull side of the machete across the fence. Each body he came across was immediately drawn to the racket. Some dead even came at him from the backyards on his side of the fence. Each time one neared, he hastily split its skull and then kept moving. Noah feared letting the dead in the canal congregate for long. Their numbers were mounting, and he knew a mob that size wielded considerable power.
The sun was setting by the time Noah reached the dead-end of Lake Ave. By then, the collection of living dead in the hydraulic numbered well over a dozen.
Noah moved near the fence and as he did the mob grew more ravenous. The chain-link mesh pushed toward him with an extreme curvature. He could hear bones breaking in the bodies at the front of the mob as the weight of their brethren pushed into them—almost pushed through them. Steel screeched as the section of fence folded forward until it kissed the pavement.
Bodies spilled onto the street. Noah’s heart beat rapidly at the sight of so many grotesque figures creeping toward him. If a group that size ever got ahold of him, they would tear Noah limb from limb in seconds. Despite the adrenaline overload, he stayed close. He couldn't just run off in a panic—not if he wanted to direct the mob.
Noah led the group to the top of the driveway and then sprinted ahead. While the dead took time to catch up, he pulled the zippo from his pocket and lit the fuse of the Molotov cocktail. Noah ran up to the house and threw the gas-bomb at the Bartlett's front door. After the bottle shattered, splattering the porch with liquid flame, he sprinted into the backyard.
Dakota had been in the kitchen eating tuna fish straight from the can when he heard something slam against the door. As he ran to the front of the house, he could see flames licking the transom window above the entrance. Dakota grabbed a coat and flung open the front door.
“Jimmy, get out here! We got a fire!” He whipped the flames with the coat. So focused on the fire was he, that he failed to notice the undead drove shambling up the driveway. But they noticed him.
A moment later, Jimmy ran onto the porch with a large jar of water. He noticed the dead immediately.
“Jesus, Koty, there’s a whole mess of 'em!” He said, pointing down the driveway.
Jimmy threw the jar of water on the fire and then pulled his brother inside, locking the door behind them.
In the shadows beneath the drooping branches of a huge Norway spruce tree, the glow
