Rhodri ran back to the lighthouse, stumbling through the beach sand to his secret path. He waded through the water, climbed over the rocks, and made his way back up the steep side of the hill on which the lighthouse perched. The day was darker now, the sun finding its way further west. He paused halfway up his climb, his forearms aching from carrying twenty pounds of food in each arm up the side of the damn hill. He sat in the tall grass, hidden from sight, and looked out over the town. There were shapes on the beach now. He recognized the shambling walk. Some of them had followed him from the city. He thought the ocean would make short work of them, but he couldn't be sure. He was glad he had used his secret path. If they had followed him up the road, he might never get back out again. There was only one way into the lighthouse, well, one way that involved staying alive. If the dead blocked it off, he would have to shoot his way out.
When he felt energy return to his legs, Rhodri grabbed the bags of food and made his way to the lighthouse. Inside, the first thing he did was wash the blood off his hands, washing until the skin on his hands was pink and raw. With his forearms still burning from lugging food up the side of the hill, he managed to put the food away and then climbed the staircase that led to the top of the lighthouse. From his perch in the sky, he scanned the beach. He spotted a knot of shadows moving at a quicker pace than the dead. It was the family from before, or maybe it was a different one. It was hard to tell at this distance. They made it to the water, the mother dragging one child behind her. He could tell by the uncoordinated movements of the family that they were running out of steam. Running on sand could do that to you, and if it was the family from before, they hadn't looked like they were that fit to begin with. Rather than watch the dead close in on them, Rhodri stepped inside the lighthouse. He couldn't watch them get torn apart. Even the thought of it was just too gruesome. On top of that, there was an annoying voice in his head that kept telling him he was wrong and that their deaths were his fault. He could have saved them.
Inside the lighthouse, he waited and watched and listened. The police radio told him nothing. There was no chatter. No one talked at all. It was as if the cops had completely disappeared. No law. No order. Nothing. He began to think about his own safety. What would he do if survivors showed up at his doorstep? Would he let them in? What if they had children?
He turned on the TV and watched it for an hour while he ate canned soup. Then his alarm went off again. He turned on the lamp at the top of the lighthouse and climbed the tower. He watched the ships in the distance. Did they know? Had anyone told them that the world had gone to shit? Would they try to dock in Astoria only to find themselves overrun by the dead?
Rhodri stood with his back to the mirrored light as it spun its lazy circle. One look at the light and he would be blinded for half-an-hour. He inched his way around the observation deck to look back at the town. The line of cars was still there. It hadn't moved. It hadn't gone anywhere. Daytime running lights still glowed in the night. He watched them all night long, watching as they winked out one by one, the cars running out of gas or the batteries running out of juice. They didn't move, but occasionally, he would catch the shadow of a shape moving in front of the headlights, blocking them out for a moment, and then the light would be back.
He wondered if they were drawn to light. The dead… they were actually fucking zombies. That's what the news had said. And they were here. Here in Seaside, of all the places in the world for them to be, why here?
Over the next few months, the lighthouse keeper never found an answer for that question, and eventually, it faded away, replaced by other, more mundane concerns. He fell into a rhythm of waking up, eating, turning on the lamp, and watching the ships in the night. But when the power failed, he was forced to go back out into the world. It was either that or abandon the ships out there to their own fates. He had done something like that once before, with the family, and he had the nightmares that proved it. He wouldn't abandon people to their fate again, not if he could do something about it.
In town, he scavenged long coils of wire that he struggled to carry up the back way to the lighthouse. He scavenged batteries from cars, staying away from the center of town, working so fast that his knuckles looked like hamburger from banging around inside the crowded, claustrophobic engines of modern cars. With his set of binoculars, he had been able to keep track of the movements of the dead, and they always seemed to wind up in the center of town. The places on the outskirts were less populated, so he had time to do the work he needed.
Using the scavenged wire, he was able
