Alvin shrugged. “I didn’t think to ask,” he said wryly. “That's when you found me.” He swallowed the memory along with a heaping spoonful of beans. “I owe you.”
“You don't owe me anything, Al. It's what you do in that situation—if you can.” Noah saw that his chewing became more labored with every spoonful. “Why don’t you go wash up and then rest a bit? You must be exhausted after all that.”
Alvin nodded. “Thank you, Noah.” He took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Thank you.”
But Noah wasn’t paying attention. His head was cocked to the side, the lower eye squinting while the upper widened under a raised eyebrow. He put his finger over his lips.
Silently, he moved to the kitchen window and peered through a gap in the boards. Four dead were milling around outside.
Noah turned back to Alvin and whispered, “They’re here for the gunshot.” He glanced out the window again. “Don’t move. Don’t make another sound until I tell you it’s ok. They should move on so long as they don’t think there’s anything here to eat.”
Alvin nodded rapidly.
“I’ll tell the others.”
As Noah crept into the living room, Alvin settled down onto a kitchen chair with only a creak to give away his movement. He couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. After that he lay his head on the breakfast table and, within seconds, was fast asleep.
II
Adam Fitzpatrick stood before the altar of the church of Saint Anthony of Abbot. The Roman Catholic church was locally renowned for being made entirely of wood—even using wooden pegs instead of nails. Adam milled around the pulpit aimlessly. He had entered the cathedral to investigate a clamorous noise he heard that afternoon but found nothing, aside from others like him.
A month earlier, Adam was alive—working as a delivery man for Sears department store. He and his coworker, Jason Davies, had pulled into the driveway of a small, two-story home at the end of Lansing Street to deliver a dishwasher to a recently widowed senior. Jason sat in the truck listening to the radio while Adam knocked on the back door. No one came to let him in. Instead, his presence was acknowledged by a low groan, like that of a man in pain.
Adam’s EMT training took over. He kicked open the door and rushed inside. The kitchen lights were off. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he spotted the old man standing naked in the dining room. Judging by his pale complexion and dazed look, Fitzpatrick guessed he’d had a stroke.
“Are you okay, sir?” he spoke loudly.
The man didn’t respond. He lurched toward the boy, mouth agape.
When Adam reached out to steady him, the old man clamped his false teeth on Adam’s index and middle fingers, tearing them off with a jerk of his head.
Adam yelled and pushed the old man to the floor. When he examined his hand and saw the bloody stumps that used to be two calloused fingers, he let out a shrill scream.
Fitzpatrick backed toward the door as the old man took to his feet, the severed fingers still rolling around his gnashing porcelain teeth. The octogenarian maniac shuffled toward him. As Adam stepped backward, he tripped on the door’s threshold and fell down the stairs onto the concrete walkway, chipping the bone in his left elbow. A wave of pain shot up his arm. Before Adam could recover, the old man stumbled out the door and tumbled on top of him.
Fitzpatrick tried to block his attacks, but the pain left him disoriented, and the old man managed to sink his dentures into Adam’s neck. He bit off a mouthful of flesh, and Adam let out a cry.
Jason barely heard Fitzpatrick’s screams over the heavy guitar and rapid double-bass of Metallica blaring on the radio. He killed the music and craned his head out the window. Someone had his partner pinned to the ground.
Jason jumped out of the truck to help his coworker. When the old man heard him approaching, he slowly turned his head and let out a gravelly moan. Shreds of Adam’s flesh were stuck between his rust-colored teeth. Jason stared into his frosted brown eyes, devoid of humanity. It was an image he couldn’t have dreamt up in his wildest nightmares. Jason opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a timorous “No.” He jumped back into the truck and peeled out of the driveway taking one of the neighbor’s sentinel shrubs with him.
The old man continued to feed until the meat grew cold and unappetizing. No longer interested, he moved on to find warm flesh.
Within minutes Adam’s body began to twitch. A mild trembling grew to full-on convulsions, which continued for several seconds until, all at once, his body ceased moving. After a moment of stillness, his eyelids opened revealing a pair of glazed brown eyes. Adam turned onto his side and slowly picked himself off the ground. He let out a long, inaugural moan.
Pistol shots broke out down the street. Adam’s head swiveled toward the noise, his mouth agape with excitement. Then he awkwardly shuffled off in their direction.
After a couple hours of exploration, it appeared there was nothing to eat in the cathedral. Eventually Adam and the other corpses slowly staggered down the red-carpeted aisle and out into the gray June afternoon.
Adam stumbled down Church Street like a drunk, not quite aware of where he was going or what he was looking for. He was only aware of a primal impulse originating from the center of his decaying
