A plastic shopping bag blew across the street. Adam lunged after it. He grabbed hold of the bag and brought it up to his mouth. It took only one bite to realize that this was not food, even though it had moved. Adam let go of the bag and it floated to the ground.
A moan sounded from down the street. It was followed by another moan, and then another, and another. When the call relayed to Fitzpatrick's location, he too moaned and then ambled off in that direction.
Halfway down the street an orange tomcat darted across the road. Fitzpatrick chased after the cat with such focus that he ran right into a black wrought-iron fence. Adam buckled over with enough force that the spear-like tip of one of the posts stabbed into his gut. He let out a visceral groan prompting a few of his brethren to investigate, but they moved on as soon as they saw that no food was involved.
Adam pushed himself off the fencepost. A chunk of his liver remained skewered on the spike. The singular motion of the mob caused him to forget about the cat, and he continued walking down the street in the direction of the other corpses.
This went on for hours—walking, getting distracted, losing attention, another distraction, more walking…. It had been two hours since Fitzpatrick left Saint Anthony’s, yet he hadn't ventured more than a mile from the cathedral—none of them had.
At exactly five o’clock, an electronic timer triggered the church's mechanical carillon, creating a long melody of bells, which used to alert the town of evening mass. Every corpse within a two-mile radius heard the sonorous bells, and each one gravitated toward the source of the sound, just as they had twice-a-day, every day since the majority of the town’s residents had died.
A half hour later, Fitzpatrick was wandering around the pulpit of Saint Anthony’s Church, investigating something he could no longer remember. After a couple hours of exploration, he found there was nothing to eat, and so he wandered down the aisle and out into the cool, evening air, as did the others—hundreds of them.
III
Alvin had been living with the Barneses for almost a month. There was never a formal agreement, but it was understood that Alvin was to help with sweeps and supply runs and etc. in exchange for a room. The arrangement stoked contentions between Charlie and Noah on a near-daily basis. The old man hated Alvin, for reasons Noah couldn’t quite pinpoint, and he wanted him gone. Charlie had given his son several ultimatums, but Noah ignored them. He figured he had the final say and refused to turn Al away since it was Alvin who now helped Noah reconnoiter for walking corpses and scavenge the local houses for supplies. He even took to looking after Abby like she was his own sister. Charlie hadn't helped with any of those duties in over a month, and it was nice for Noah to have someone to share the day-to-day responsibilities. Despite Alvin’s contributions, his father still found fault with him.
“I want you to take back his gun. That was a special edition,” said Charlie one morning.
Noah’s soiled fingers tightened around a glass of water. He and Alvin had just returned from replacing a section of pipe on the watermain—took them damn near a month of digging just to find the leak—and he was not in the mood.
He peered through the window to make sure Alvin was still outside smoking a cigarette. “You mean you’re going to use it?” Noah responded sarcastically.
Charlie ignored the comment. “He’s eating too much of our food.”
“He finds most of the food.”
“I don’t like the way he’s always around Abby.”
“He’s looking after her, dad—something else you should be doing.”
“I don't trust him.”
“Well, I do, and until you start pulling your weight like you used to, I decide what's best for the family,” said Noah.
“Then I will,” snapped Charlie.
Noah arched his eyebrow. “Volume,” he said calmly.
“I will!”
“Shh!” Noah put his finger to his lips. He eyed his father up and down. Charlie hadn't left the safety of the house in over a month. His father had real fear put in him, perhaps to a phobic degree, and Noah didn’t believe he had the nerve to confront it. “Then do it.”
“Fine.” Charlie’s whisper cut through the air like a whip. “And when I do, he’s gone.”
Noah stared at his dad. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“You know what I think about those Bartlett boys.”
“That's it. Isn't it? It's about the family he comes from, not who he is.”
“Those boys are rotten fruit—same as their old man. Same as your friend Billy,” he added.
Noah shook his head and walked away. If there were a portrait of his father hidden away in their attic, he thought, it had grown quite ugly over the past couple months.
As Noah entered the living room, he found Abigail grimacing from the top of the staircase. There was a large wet spot at the center of her nightgown. When she saw her big brother she began to cry, embarrassed.
“Did you have another accident, Abby?” Although he tried, Noah couldn’t conceal the frustration in his voice. It was the fifth time in three weeks she had wet the bed and he was getting tired of washing soiled linen and pajamas. “It’s ok, there’s no need to cry,” Noah said as he climbed the stairs. “It’s not your fault.”
He went to hug his sister, but she recoiled.
Her consideration surprised him. “It’s fine, I’ve had worse on me. What was it, another nightmare?”
“There was a dead man in my closet,” she whimpered.
“The dead men are out there, and we take care of them. It was a bad dream, that’s all.” He took her
