Eventually, Rhodri decided to use what the ancient lighthouse keepers had used… fire. He unfastened all of the mirrors and the supports at the top of the lighthouse, creating a flat surface he could build on. Then he lugged a manhole cover from the city, a thick piece of metal that wouldn't bend or melt under the heat of a fire. He lined the manhole cover with stones from the beach, saving him a trip into the city. It still had almost cost him a heart attack when one of the dead washed up onto the shore next to him, seaweed tangled in its hair and bits of kelp draped over its arms. It crawled to him, waterlogged and swollen.
He used the revolver then, spending two precious bullets. His first shot was intentionally off. Rhodri fired at the creature's shoulder. It was too swollen and misshapen to be able to determine what sex the thing used to be. The bullet entered the body, tearing through the flesh of the shoulder, but it seemed to feel no pain. Still it came on, unable to stand with so much seawater in its body. He stood over it then and aimed the revolver at its head. He pulled the trigger, and the thing stopped crawling. He went back to collecting the rocks he would need to line his makeshift firepit, glancing over at the body as it was dragged out by the receding ocean, and then deposited back on the shore. He looked every time it came closer, sure that it would come back to life.
With a bag full of rocks, he hiked up the hill and back to the lighthouse. He noted the change in his body. It seemed leaner, more muscular, and it had been only a few weeks. He hadn't realized how soft he had become just sitting around in his lighthouse reading books and occasionally going for a pint at the U-Street Pub and Eatery. But now, he was changing.
He had prepared his makeshift firepit at the apex of the lighthouse and lined it with tidepool rocks. All he needed was fuel. During normal times, the seaside beaches had been free of driftwood. People snatched up the smaller logs and branches for mementos when they washed up on the sand. If a particularly large log washed up, the public safety department would rush out, cut it up, and haul it away, lest some dumbass tourist became trapped underneath it when the log rolled over from them standing on top of it. But with the sudden lack of tourists, Rhodri had been able to find everything he needed on the beaches. He had been able to find more wood than he needed. There were great logs lying on the beach now. The only way he would be able to use those for fire would be to run a chainsaw, but he knew that would bring the dead. So far, the dead hadn't tried to use the back path up the side of the hill. The combination of having to climb over the rocks and wade through water seemed to keep them away, but he knew they would find their way to him eventually.
The first night, with his driftwood collected and his improvised firepit ready for its inaugural burn, Rhodri sat on the steps, unable to move. His legs and arms burned from collecting driftwood and climbing the steep path to the lighthouse. He waited for the sun to go down, slumped on the steps, only his head sticking out into the cool ocean breeze.
The final step to make everything ready had been an act that pained him, not physically, but pain all the same. He had busted out all of the windows at the top of the lighthouse in order to give the fire air to breathe. He had started by trying to disassemble the windows. Vents were built into them naturally to provide some airflow through the entirety of the lighthouse, but the airflow would not be enough, and the smoke would be trapped in the top of the tower if he didn't do anything. So, he had taken a sledgehammer to the glass panes. They were thick and heavy-duty, and he had pounded for fifteen minutes just to break out one of the panes. Then he sat, catching his breath, his hands and arms still ringing from the effort.
There was more air, but it would not be enough to allow the smoke to clear. If only he could pop off the entire top of the lighthouse, like it was the lid to a Zippo lighter, that would be preferable. Unfortunately, the architects that had designed the lighthouse hadn't thought of that, so he picked up the sledgehammer again and continued his work until all of the windows were gone.
As the sun went down, Rhodri lugged driftwood up the stairs a load at a time, tripping and stumbling up the steps, exhausted. He watched the sky turn orange, and then he lit his fire. It worked as he wanted it to. That night, he struggled to keep his eyes open–– to make sure that the fire didn't go out. The smell of smoke washed over him.
