Life Among the Dead

By Daniel Cotton

A virus turns humans into the ravenous undead in this zombie apocalypse thriller—first in the epic series of survival and sacrifice.

There are over a million people in the city of Waterloo. Today, most of them have died, and now they are hungry. Corporal Dan Williamson is caught in the middle of the outbreak. He is desperately trying to reach his wife who is somewhere amid the urban decay. There are other souls out there, other tales of survival among the horror. Dan will soon learn that the living may prove to be an even bigger threat than the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781618681829

Book preview

Part I. Dead End

1

Just beyond Shepard Park, west of the city of Waterloo, lies the suburbs. On the quiet street of West 8th, birds chirp their songs while squirrels scamper and chase one another. The mid-morning sun warms away the frost from the night before. It is on this street that a man runs in the chilly November air.

His heart throbs in his ears so loudly it is all he can hear. The rapid thud overpowers the sound of the birds and the chattering squirrels. It drowns out the repeating plod of his heavy footfalls, the urgent pace of a desperate man.

He takes in large gulps of brisk air, and the breaths leave his mouth in thin trails of steam. His face is set in a panic induced grimace, mouth agape to allow as much oxygen into his lungs as possible. Sweat beads upon his forehead despite the cold. His only companion is a dull ache below the ribs on his left side that sharpens with every step.

Striding along, the man looks back to see if they are still behind him. He knows that they are. He has been running like this for a while and their presence hasn’t wavered. He needs time to catch his breath, time to think. Gauging their distance, he decides to risk it. They’re slow. I can make up the time.

The pursuers are about ten houses back as he slows his pace. He throws his hands over his head. Each clasps tightly to its opposing forearm, as they taught them in boot camp. Something about the blood pooling? He tries to remember. Not passing out? He gives up that train of thought as he looks around the neighborhood. There are a lot of nice homes that he doesn’t have time to admire. He is looking for more of them. They seem to be everywhere.

The man places his hands on his camouflage clad knees as he tries to allow his heart to slow. The strong muscle contracts with such force that his body is shaking. As he leans forward, his rifle slips from his shoulder and dangles by his ankles, the strap caught by his wrist. He just looks at the weapon, too weak to fuss with it, and decides to just let it hang there. Right now, he just wants to breathe.

This is Dan Williamson, a corporal in the National Guard, and as far as he knows the last of his unit. He straightens up, facing his oppressors. They are making slow and steady progress towards him. The man runs a palm over his close cropped blonde hair. There are so many of them. Hundreds by his estimate.

How many of them do I know? he asks himself.

In the distance he can see a few of them wear identical uniforms to his own; his men. They had joined the other side. Of course it was not their intention to commit treason. They are dead. But, for some unknown reason the dead are not staying that way today.

He got the call to duty at around six that morning. Units were being activated. They had to report to the recruiting depot for supplies and orders. Dan’s unit was supposed to aid the police in riot control. They clearly failed. All he wants now is to get home.

He decides he should get moving again. The thought makes his legs ache. He is weighed down with gear he doesn’t dare discard. Over his uniform blouse is a heavy flak jacket that holds his body heat in, roasting him. He can feel the steam rise from below his collar.

The exhausted soldier turns away from the horde of walking dead. Ahead of him two cars are parked in the street, blocking the road. As Dan gets closer he sees the two had collided as they pulled from their respective driveways. They were abandoned, just left in the road. Probably trying to get out of the city, Dan surmises. Where are the owners now? he asks himself, creeping closer to the wreck.

The driver side door of a blue compact is open. Dan looks in and sees a set of keys dangling from the ignition. Leaning in, he turns them. Nothing. The tank must be dry, he contends. Although he believes the other car will yield the same results, he has to try it anyway. He ventures around the wreck quickly. Dan doesn’t like how close the mass of walking corpses is getting, just four houses away. He has seen what they do.

Dan is taken aback as he rounds the sedan. A figure rises to its feet. He wears a nice black business suit and, aside from the blood smeared across his mouth, he looks relatively normal. Dan sees where the blood came from. The zombie was eating a paperboy who lies on the pavement. Bundles of the daily news are strewn about the scene.

In his haste Dan almost drops his rifle. He hates losing the precious bullet as he squeezes the trigger. He doesn’t have that many to spare. The zombie advances on the soldier as its head snaps backwards. A single round plows into his face just below his nose, exiting through the back of his skull. The body crumples to the ground next to the paperboy.

The army of zombies is getting closer. Ahead, Dan sees a few coming at him. He feels trapped. His M-16 only has two shots left. He decides to dart onto one of the lawns to evade the dead.

The soldier takes the first step only to fall forward onto the road. His leg is caught by something. Prone, the soldier pulls on his leg, but it is firmly ensnared. He looks back and sees the newsy has both hands around his combat boot. The young zombie is trying to pull the leg to its open and ready mouth. The deceased boy begins to gnaw on the heel of Dan’s boot. The soldier can feel its powerful and starved jaws trying to tear through. Dissatisfied with the shoe leather, the boy is heading up to the man’s calf.

Dan can’t pull free, and there are two more heading at him with the same goal as the horde closing the distance behind him. The dead moan in a melancholy choir. The sound gets louder and louder, adding to Dan’s anxiety, driving the soldier to the point of panic. A hot prickly sensation runs up his back. Dan fights to free his leg, managing only to drag the lightweight zombie along the street. He gets to his knees and drives the butt of his rifle into the youth’s head until the dead boy goes limp.

Dan scrambles away in a frantic crawl. Once he is able to stand, he sprints around the living dead, evading their grasp as they reach for him. One of the groping corpses, the neighborhood’s postman, turns to watch his breakfast getting away. He clumsily trips over his own feet, stumbling to the ground.

Dan is once again running. He runs as he did before. Hope drives him. Hope of living long enough to see his wife again. He heads deeper down West 8th, attempting to open the doors of cars parked along the street and in driveways. They are all locked. Even here, he thinks. There is no trust anymore. He doubts he can hotwire one anyway. I don’t know how and there’s no time to learn. His only option is to run. The path ahead looks clear. Behind him, the dead clog the street. The swarm spills into the yards that flank it. All of them have the same solitary ambition, to eat.

2

They’re not zombies! a skinny redheaded boy says adamantly.

Yes, they are! responds a portly dark-haired boy.

They are not. They are humans infected with rage.

The pair of 16-year-olds are in the basement of 22 West 8th. Any outsider entering the subterranean space would describe it as dark, musty, and quite depressing. It smells of stale pizza and dirty laundry, with a subtle hint of body odor. To the current inhabitants, the regulars, it’s heaven.

They are zombies, Stevie. Trust me, the heavier of the two, Derek, tries to convince his friend.

Why, because you listened to the commentary track? The director may have done a ‘take on’ zombies, but they are not zombies. Zombies are reanimated corpses that eat flesh. Becka, tell him.

Among the bickering boys is a girl that Stevie pleads with for backup. She is an oddity in the dank cellar, among the trash and piles of clothes, the action figures proudly on display, and the comprehensive comic book collection. She stands out here because of how well she blends in with the world above. She is popular up there, one of the beautiful people.

I don’t care. Can we just play? Becka asks, exasperated by their debate. This is worse than your fight over which would win in a race between the Enterprise and the Millennium Falcon.

The three have been friends ever since elementary school and have remained close despite Becka’s rise in the high school hierarchy.

Sorry, Becka, Stevie apologizes, turning his attention away from the gore being displayed on a small television. On the screen people scream, running for their lives while rising music plays to increase the movie’s tension.

Yeah, me too, Derek adds his remorse.

It’s alright. Where were we? she asks.

Derek clears his throat as he consults a sheet of graph paper. The two of you were about to enter the cavern of shadows. Ahead of you looms…

We did that already, Stevie interrupts.

Yeah, I thought we were deep in the forest of mystery, Becka adds.

Derek is flustered as he scans through his papers. Fittingly his turn as dungeon master takes place in his dungeon of a bedroom.

You suck as DM, Stevie jabs.

Shut up, Derek's face is getting red. When he gets embarrassed he always starts to feel warm. Sweat is beading through his pores, giving him an uncomfortable feeling all over his body.

God, Becka stands up and stretches. We’ve been at this campaign for two days now. Her arms are extended over her head, causing her shirt to lift up, revealing her taut stomach. Stevie notices, but tries to act as if he hasn’t.

I need a shower. Derek, do you mind?

No, go ahead, he responds, still pondering the storyline he had written for them to play out.

Be back in a minute, Becka says as she starts up the stairs.

Derek gives up his searching to join Stevie in watching her depart. Both boys have been in love with her for years, long before she had blossomed. They hate themselves for picturing her in the shower just now. What they hate more is the fact they must keep their friendship a secret, for Becka’s sake.

Becka hates the secrecy as well. It isn’t fair to Stevie and Derek to be ignored when her popular friends are around. She would much rather be with her boys. These clandestine weekends are her only escape from the pressured world of popularity. She had to fake a knee injury to get out of cheerleading just to be here. The three friends should be in first period now, but thanks to a teachers’ conference they have the day off.

Becka is on the first floor of Derek’s house. All of the curtains are drawn. His mom must have gone to work already, she concludes. She walks through the kitchen and out into the dining room, passing the front door on her way to the stairs. She is halfway up when she remembers she wanted to look out the window to see the accident they had heard earlier. Becka turns but decides she can just look at it on the way back down.

She locks the bathroom door behind her before undressing. She wishes she had brought in her change of clothes. They are in her car as usual; she always forgets to grab them. It’s too late now, Becka figures while tossing her worn garments on the pink fluff covered toilet. She isn’t about to go out and get them.

Derek and Stevie sit in silence at the round card table. A loud pop rang out from the street above them, but they hadn’t cared enough to look. They figured it was a car backfiring, or something. They are more intent on listening as water rushes from the hot water heater in the corner of Derek’s den.

One of us should make a move, Stevie says finally.

I’m trying to figure it out, Derek returns to his papers.

I don’t mean the game. I mean with Becka. You or I should make a move, Stevie explains.

Derek looks up from his notes at his bespeckled friend. They often have this talk. We don’t have a chance. We don’t have ‘moves’ even if we wanted to make one.

She deserves better than those jock-ass douche bags she dates. We’re her friends.

Not really. Not as far as anyone else knows.

We know. That’s enough for me.

Derek considers what Stevie has said. He would love to be her boyfriend, but the painful truth always dousing that dream is irrefutable, he and Stevie are beneath her.

Becka turns off the water and steps out of the shower onto a pink bath mat that matches the toilet seat cozy. She wipes the steam off of a full-length mirror and admires herself. She loves to look at what puberty and cheerleading has done for her physique. She is svelte and sleek like a cat. Every aspect toned to tight perfection.

She often compares what she looks like now to how she once looked. She was a late bloomer in junior high; flat chested, face all bumpy. She was made fun of a lot by all the guys who now want her. The only ones who were ever true to her are down in the basement. They are her only real friends. Sadly no one outside the trio will ever know.

She wraps her long black hair in a towel as she thinks of her fake friends, her vapid cheerleader pals. She hates them. She hates their backstabbing, two-faced ways and their cattiness. She hates the stupid things they say with their primitive brains.

The smell of Becka’s clothes makes her nose crinkle. She realizes as she puts the garments on, she could never wear them around her faux friends. No way, only around my boys. The brilliant nerds she adores, who can speak fluent Klingon and make her feel special.

3

The solitary soldier continues his trek along West 8th. The pain in his side has evolved into a sharp stab, inhibiting his speed. Glancing back, Dan figures he should be all right as long as he just keeps a safe distance from the cloud of zombies that tail him. The man looks ahead, hoping to find a spot where he can hide. If I can just drop off their radar, maybe they’ll pass me by.

Lush hedges border an upcoming driveway. The strip of asphalt services house number 32, according to the black numbers on the mailbox. A red balloon hovers, tethered to the box by a thin string. Dan crouches below the greenery as he heads to the house. His hand goes to the knob, and he is relieved to discover the front door is unlocked. He doesn’t hesitate as he slinks into the home.

The dead bolt is immediately thrown and he secures the lock on the knob. For an added measure of assurance, he slides the chain lock into place. Dan is on his knees staring at the door. He can hear their moaning. It’s getting louder as they approach. To the right of the door is a large window shrouded by a heavy beige curtain.

Apprehensive fingers lift the thick fabric, trying carefully not to be seen. A small gash of light is made, a sliver that he peers through. The two zombies he had avoided earlier, when the paperboy attacked, have entered the yard. They must have seen me come this way, Dan thinks while his stomach knots up. They’re looking for me.

The figures pause on uneasy feet. Their bodies sway as they slowly look around the yard. Dan can see their slack lifeless faces. One is a man, half dressed. His neck is bandaged with gauze that his blood had soaked through. He must have been getting ready for work, Dan thinks, noticing the left side of the guy’s face is covered in a dried lather of shaving cream. The other figure is a woman wearing jeans and a tee shirt. Her right forearm is gnawed to the bone.

The gaze of the undead passes the window and Dan ducks down. His chest aches with tension as he listens for them. He strains his ears to detect what is happening outside, expecting to hear them at the door any second, clawing and moaning, looking for food.

The cowering soldier steels himself, gathers his courage, and holds his breath like it is his last. He forces himself to look out again.

His vision is obscured. Before he saw light, now all he can see is a shadow. It takes him a moment to realize it’s one of them standing before the thin pane of glass. Dan freezes as he looks at the body. It’s the man. His back is to the house. The soldier feels a wave of relief wash over him.

On the road, beyond the loitering zombie, Dan can see the horde passing by. The dead man on the lawn is watching the procession as well. The corpse slowly begins to move, heading off to join the others. Dan watches him depart. The half dressed man has only a pair of pajama bottoms on. Not only was he bitten on the neck, it appears his right calf was also some cadaver’s breakfast. The gray cloth is in tatters and stained red. Most of the muscle is gone. The wound causes a pronounced limp. Dan knows the hobbling isn’t from the pain. They don’t feel pain.

All he has to go on is theory at this point. Dan and his men found out by trial and error that only headshots will put them down for good. Body shots slow them, but not much. The virus, or plague, or whatever the hell is causing this, is transmissible by bite. You get bit, you turn into one, and you eat flesh. Just like the movies. Dan wishes this was just a movie.

4

Derek is fairly confident he knows where they left off before being side tracked by the debate. Now he has his head on the table while they wait for Becka to return. Stevie stares at the white dimpled panels of the ceiling as he absently rolls a pair of 20 sided dice. Becka appears at long last. Her hair is wet and her shirt clings tightly to her damp body, accentuating her curves.

I know where we are… Derek starts to say, but he notices Becka has an expression on her face that tells him something more important is going on. It is a haunted look.

Hey, Becka, Stevie starts to ask. Did you hear something earlier? Like a loud popping sound? Could have been a car backfire, or a gunshot?

Derek notices his friend’s ordinarily pretty face set in a mask of shock, like she had just seen a ghost. Are you alright?

No. I mean, yeah. Come upstairs. She turns and heads up without any more explanation, or even waiting to see if they follow.

No explanation is needed. The boys spring to their feet and follow the cheerleader up the steps. In the upstairs hall, they see her briefly in the kitchen as she rounds the corner heading into the dining room. She leads them to the window that looks out to the street. Becka waves them in close to her, lowering her head in a secretive pose.

I was upstairs, she begins to tell them in a whisper. I heard the popping sound you guys heard. I was already going to take a look, to see that crash we heard earlier, when I came back through… She just points to the window.

Stevie takes her cue. He creeps to the window and lifts the bottom of the white vinyl shade. He sees hundreds of people walking along the street. From the left of his view to the right.

That is odd, he admits. As he continues to watch, he starts to see just how ‘odd’ it is. He takes note of the way people are dressed; bed clothes, business attire, one woman is completely naked. He notices they all walk in a drunken stumble and share the same lifeless expression. What really strikes him as peculiar is that most of them are wounded and bloody. He sees a paperboy crawling along with the others. One of his legs is gone, only a bloody stump. Jesus Christ! This is really fucking odd!

Derek watches his friend leave the window, his face now set in an expression of fear like Becka’s. It’s his turn to look. He creeps to the window and lifts the bottom as Stevie had. He doesn’t know if he wants to see whatever it is that has creeped out his friends so much. As he crouches to view the street, the shade’s recoil is triggered, sending it up towards the ceiling and out of his hand. It flaps loudly as the mechanism’s force causes it to spin on its rod.

Derek freezes, mesmerized by what he is seeing. Have I fallen asleep? he asks himself. He wonders if this is the result of exhaustion and too many scary movies. He remembers laying his head on the uneven card table.

Get down! he hears Becka say from a million miles away as his brain struggles to analyze this impossible equation. He is pulled down next to his friends on the floor. His hand lands at the baseboard, right onto a carpet tack. A brief flash of pain and he knows this isn’t a dream. His mind is brought into the frightening daymare that is unfolding in his neighborhood.

They’re coming, Becka says, peeking over the window sill. Her voice is choked with fear. What do we do?

Basement, Stevie says, already crawling back to the kitchen. Derek grabs his ankle.

No, he commands. Upstairs. Move!

The trio race to the stairs and scramble up to the second floor. The three childhood friends can hear moaning coming from below and the sound of hands slapping against glass and wood.

In the hall, Derek hops up to grab a dangling cord as his friends shift nervously from foot to foot. It takes him three attempts until he gets a hold of it and uses his weight to lower a panel from above. It opens, revealing a collapsible ladder built into the house’s structure that leads up into a dark space. The ladder won’t unfold.

It must be rusted. We have to boost each other, Derek says, placing his back to the wall and lacing his fingers together between his knees. Becka.

She steps into his hand with her bare feet and reaches for the defunct ladder while Derek heaves her upwards. She leaves his hands and groans as she hauls herself the rest of the way up.

Downstairs, glass is breaking. Shards from the windows fall to the carpeted dining room floor, tinkling against each other.

Boost me, Stevie. Then Becka and I will pull you up, Derek says.

Stevie complies. He puts his back to the wall as Derek had and helps his buddy reach the ladder. From his vantage, the skinnier boy can see down the stairs. He’s relieved to see nothing yet. The moans are much louder now that the windows are broken. More glass falls, crunching under unseen feet.

Stevie looks up and sees Derek is struggling to pull his weight over the edge of the hole. Becka is trying to pull him the rest of the way by his belt. Derek makes it and the two disappear into the opening.

A look to the stairs reveals shadows cast by unsteady figures. The heavy thumps of bodies falling into the house through the devastated windows can be heard. Moaning fills the air.

Come on, Stevie! Derek yells down. The stranded boy looks up to see his crony hanging down as far as he can. One hand is outstretched, the other desperately tries to maintain a hold on the aging wood of the ladder.

The boy jumps up and latches onto the offered hand. Both have sweaty palms and he slips right out of Derek’s grasp, falling to the floor with a thud.

Again, Stevie hears from above as he gets to his feet. He is about to jump once more when the stairs creak. He looks to the sound and sees slack faced figures slowly climbing up to him. Their moans vibrate the walls. The boy franticly looks up to the crawlspace. His eyes meet Derek’s.

Come on, Derek says calmly.

Stevie wipes his hands across his shirt and lunges up to meet his friend. He gets a grip on Derek’s pudgy fingers with both hands. He slides a little but refuses to let go.

Climb! Derek yells with a voice full of strain.

Stevie kicks his legs until he locates the wall. He starts to walk up the off-white surface as Derek pulls. Becka aids the portly rescuer by pulling back on his shoulders.

Slowly Stevie ascends the ladder as a handful of figures start to fill the hall. He looks down at their dead faces; their hands reach for him, trying to grab his skinny, dangling legs. He can feel fingertips graze the fabric of his pants as he clings to the useless ladder. He manages to get his right knee onto the lowest of the rungs. His other limb is ensnared in a viselike grip before he can get it up.

The thin boy screams as an icy cold hand slips its emaciated digits under his pant leg. Stevie thrashes against his assailant as he is dragged down the wooden ladder. He fights to kick free, struggling to maintain his hold on the splintered wood. He screams out in terror, unable to jerk his leg away before he loses his grip.

Stevie hovers in space, the center of a tug-o-war between the living and the dead. Derek has the smaller boy by his armpits. He and Becka redouble their efforts to raise their friend. The frigid hand loses the battle.

The three exhausted teens fall backwards into a cloud of white insulation. They just lay in the soft cottony piles, not daring to move.

5

Able to breathe easy, Dan sits in the dim foyer of number 32. He knows he should inspect his new surroundings before declaring the place safe and dropping his guard. He forces himself to stand. His rifle is in his hands as he proceeds through the house.

It’s very quiet. He is in a living room furnished with modest do-it-yourself fare. He sees a couch facing an entertainment center and a couple of recliners. Two lamps cast an orange glow upon everything. He doesn’t care about the décor; he just wants to know nothing is moving.

Dan feels uneasy. He has a tight, tingling sensation in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was much younger. He had broken into an old barn, near his uncle’s place out in New Castle, on a dare. He knew the place was abandoned, and that it wouldn’t hurt anyone, but it was still off-limits. The act filled him with a sense of dread. He hates the feeling.

The soldier continues his slow trek across the worn beige carpet that probably used to be white. His black leather boots step around children’s toys as he scans every angle. Blue steamers hang from the ceiling, tickling the top of his shaved head.

Dan reaches the center of the room and turns to get the whole panorama. Behind him, a banner is taped to the wall that reads: Happy Birthday Jimmy!

That explains the streamers, Dan says to himself. Against the back wall of the house is a pile of presents. The festively wrapped objects obscure the view of the television. He wonders if there is any news yet about today’s occurrences.

He lays his rifle against the wobbly entertainment center. One at a time, and as quiet as he can, Dan moves the packages. The gifts vary in size and shape. He catches himself shaking one like a kid on Christmas. He chalks this act up to human nature. It’s natural for a person to be curious and need to know.

The set now exposed, he locates the remote stuck between the cushions of a large stained couch. The place is definitely lived in, he thinks to himself as he sinks into the plush seat, letting out an involuntary sigh.

The place is very inviting. The uneasiness he had felt abates, although he still has a sense of heightened awareness. He is paranoid that at any moment one of them will sneak up on him. He looks over the back of the sofa towards the front door a couple of times before turning back to the television. All that is behind him, as far as he can see, are toddler toys and action figures.

He should be able to relax and catch some news, perhaps figure out a safe route home. He aims the remote at the tube and hits the power button. A deep click follows. The set warms up for a few seconds before Dan is bombarded with a blast of music. The screen fades in, displaying dancing puppets that caterwaul in high pitched voices.

He tries to mute the singing, but it won’t cease. The fuzzy creatures are prancing about in a forest of make believe as Dan flails around with the remote trying to silence them. He ultimately gives up on the idea of muting the monsters and just switches the set off again.

Frozen in place, he remains in an awkward stance. Residual from his wrestling match with the remote. One knee is on the floor. The other leg had somehow laid itself over the coffee table. Dan’s arms still hold the remote aloft. He rises slowly, as if any haste might bring the noise back.

The man tiptoes to the front of the house, as if his silence and wishful thinking will make up for the noise he just made. He wants to take a peek out the window to see if his ruckus has brought their attention to him. Even before looking outside he knows they have heard him. He can hear them. Their moans are getting closer. A handful of them are coming towards the house, curious and hungry.

The soldier runs to the couch and dives over it. He left his rifle by the television, leaning on the entertainment center. He tries to grab it with his left hand, but he’s still holding the remote tightly in his grasp.

Fuck me! he curses himself, absently pocketing the remote and taking up the weapon.

He can hear them. The zombies are at the door and the windows. Their moans are like sad pleas. Dan is close to hyperventilating. He gulps air in ragged breaths, unable to get enough. Palms are slapping against wood and glass. He can see silhouettes against the curtains and wonders how long the glass can hold them back. Their moans get louder and louder as more and more arrive at the house. It almost sounds like they’re inside already, Dan thinks, looking around for an exit.

To the right of the television is another thick curtain that’s hung higher than the others, only an inch or two from the ceiling. On the adjoining wall, Dan spots a door. He is relieved to have a few options. He hopes the curtain covers a door to the backyard of the dwelling, and a way out.

On his walk to the curtain, the door next to it swings open. A blonde woman pushes through with her body. She is in a blue sundress, and has a very classic look that reminds Dan of old black and white sit-coms. Detracting from her beauty and perfect make-up is the lazy way she walks towards him, her arms outstretched, her subtle eye shadow sullied by her vacant stare.

The soldier takes a step back and aims his rifle. He only has two rounds and is debating whether to use one on the ex-house wife or not. He takes another step back as she advances, wanting to maintain distance between them. His heel locates one of the errant toys and, before he knows it, he is falling backwards. His foot flies out from under him and he lands hard on his back, the impact causes him to tense his trigger finger, a shot is wasted into the ceiling. The rifle’s recoil makes it jump from his hand.

The woman in blue is almost on top of him and he is without a weapon. He settles for the object that tripped him up, grabbing the pull cord of the large plastic train. He wraps the string around his hand a few times as he scrambles backwards, trying to keep away from the corpse.

The man stands up and swings the makeshift melee weapon at her head as glass begins to crack and crinkle behind him. The zombie takes the blow to her temple, becoming off balanced. Dan swings again and again driving her back until she flops over the couch. She clumsily topples to the floor. The soldier discards the choo-choo and unsheathes his combat knife. The prone zombie is trying to get to its feet. Its arms flail, grabbing the coffee table. Dan puts his knee to her back and pushes her down. He drives his blade into her skull. The tip of the steel only enters an inch into the bone. He has to shove his weight down on it and bounce until it buries itself to the hilt. She stops flailing.

Pieces of glass fall from the window behind him. Dan’s knife remains lodged in the zombie’s skull. Hurriedly he places his foot to her neck as he yanks the blade free with both hands, like King Arthur retrieving Excalibur. Her head pulls back with his movement until the knife is freed. Her face bounces off the floor.

Dan rushes to the curtain by the entertainment center. He picks up his lost rifle and throws the fabric aside, only to be startled by red poofy hair and face paint. A zombie dressed as a clown stands staring at Dan. It wears wide pants with mismatching suspenders. The jester tries to grab the soldier through a glass sliding door that is between them. It ends up bouncing its head off the invisible barrier with a reverberating thunk. Behind him, the windows have given way. A look back and Dan can see the dead pouring into the house like a waterfall of limp bodies. I have no choice, he figures.

He throws open the sliding glass door. Bozo tries to lunge at him, but receives a foot to his chest instead. The sole of Dan’s combat boot lands square in the middle of the clown’s obscenely wide yellow tie. The amusingly clad zombie falls on its back to a concrete slab that serves as this domicile’s patio. Before it can get up, its head is stomped into the hard surface by the hurried man.

The sun shines down into the enclosed yard. The air feels much warmer. All sides of the property are bordered by brown wooden fencing that Dan judges to be at least 8 feet high. Within the yard a dozen pint sized corpses shamble towards the soldier from the right hand side, all wearing festively pointed hats. Despite the horror of seeing children like this, Dan knows he has to keep moving. He can hear the dead in the house making their way to join the party.

The first of the young zombies in his way stands out from the others. He has a blue ribbon pinned to his shirt that reads: Birthday Boy.

Happy birthday, Jimbo! Dan says, swinging his rifle like a bat. The butt connects with Jimmy’s jaw, shattering it as the boy becomes airborne.

The undead missile lands on a barbeque grill that belches black smoke from under its lid. His weight causes the grill to topple over; its gas tank flops hard against the ground. Dan passes Jimmy, who now flails to get to his feet. The boy’s right arm is on fire. The zombie child looks at the flames with dumb fascination at first, then tries to swat them out with his other hand. The greasy blaze spreads, and soon he is engulfed up to his elbows.

A hissing sound escapes from the over turned BBQ. That’s not good, Dan says to himself. He increases his speed as he heads to the fence. He has to bat away the tiny zombies in his path. The soldier vaults up the wooden wall and doesn’t hesitate to look before falling over the other side. He’s deeper down the street and even further from home.

From the neighboring lawn, Dan locates a crack between the boards of the fence. Jimmy’s place is lousy with walking corpses. They pour onto the patio from the sliding door. The birthday boy is now a walking ball of fire that the other dead see and seem to avoid. They are still coming after Dan, taking a wider approach around the flames.

They’re afraid of fire, Dan deduces. A flash blinds him and his ears are suddenly filled with a loud, painful boom as the propane grill explodes. Although the wooden divider takes the brunt of the force, Dan still finds himself on his back.

The cerulean blue sky slowly comes into focus. He stares up at it, allowing himself time to recover. The lawn is thick and soft beneath him. He would love to lay here for a few hours, but he knows he can’t. He has to get home to his wife. One thing troubles him at the moment, above all the implausible and awful things he has seen today.

Isn’t it a little early in the day for a fucking barbecue? he screams at the fence, while kicking the smoldering wood. His futile outburst makes him laugh. He slowly stands up, smiling as he brushes himself off. He freezes in place and his smile disappears when he hears a low growl coming from somewhere in the yard.

6

Oh, my God. Did you hear that? Becka asks in the dark.

Yeah, Derek responds.

What was that?

Sounded like an explosion.

They cannot see one another. Derek pulled up the hatch, eliminating their main source of light in the home’s crawl space. Small vents in the roof allow thin shafts of daylight in along the old boards above them. This hardly dents the pitch-blackness of their surroundings.

They sit in silence, trying to be as still as possible, listening to the muffled moaning from below. They can hear floorboards creak under the feet of the dead, even through the thick insulation they nest in. The air they breathe is heavy with tension, there are particles in it that scratch their throats and burn their lungs.

Becka can’t take the silence any more. She needs to speak to her unseen friends. She needs the comfort of communication to alleviate the fear she is feeling.

There sure is a lot of this shit, she says finally in a whisper.

What shit? Derek asks, relieved that someone finally spoke. The growing tightness of his chest is bringing on an asthma attack.

This cottony stuff, Becka points, however the gesture is lost in the darkness.

My mom… just had it blown in… with winter coming an all, he explains between ragged breaths. Stress always seems to bring on these spells. The minute irritants he is taking into his lungs are not helping either.

Is this the itchy stuff? Becka asks. She lifts her hands off of the cloud just in case. She can feel her skin crawling at the thought of it.

No… something else, Derek assures his friend. He concentrates on calming down and trying not to hear those things below. Stevie is somewhere close by; he can hear the boy breathing in staggered rasps.

When he is more composed, Derek pushes the hatch down. He wants a peek at the second floor, and the light will help him check on the other boy.

Becka creeps over to Derek, wanting to be close to her friends and the light. Her psychosomatic itchiness has gone away. The dim shaft of illumination from the hall reflects off of the white insulation, revealing Stevie lying in a fetal position. His knees are to his chest, held tightly with one arm. The other arm holds his ankles to his bottom.

The kids can see the intruders in the hall, staring up at the hatch with vacant eyes that hold no intelligence. Their faces are slack and without feeling. The figures pace the hall, reaching up as if they think they can grab hold of the kids. Their movements are slow and clumsy, like those of drunken people.

Close it, Becka says, backing away.

Stevie, do you want to see before I close it? Derek asks.

Stevie says nothing. The hatch is pulled up and all is black again. They stay close to one another, listening to the dead and hearing each other breathe. Their new positions allow Becka to almost see Derek in relief against one of the small vents.

Silence washes over the trio again in the timeless void. An eternity is passing slowly in their claustrophobic negative space. Becka is on the verge of a panic attack. She can feel it build in her stomach. Her legs twitch as her hands fidget blindly with some round pebbles she located from random piles scattered on top of the foam. She has the urge to scream, to let out her anxiety. Instead she tries to lighten the mood.

Aren’t you guys going to argue about what they are? she asks with a nervous laugh.

Not this time. I think we can concur. Right, Stevie? Derek nudges the lump in the blackness that constitutes his pal. The lump does not respond.

Stevie? Derek’s hand finds his bony shoulder. Not even a shake arouses a reaction.

Steven? Becka calls out in the dark. Her voice fails her halfway through his name. Becka and Derek can feel the foam move as the lump sits up with a groan.

Fuck! Derek lets out, as he jumps to his feet and moves away as quickly as he can. His head thumps on a rafter hidden in the shadow that envelops them. The pain does not deter him. The heavy boy wades through the knee-deep foam in retreat. Becka, get away from him! He’s one of them!

He had traveled several yards deeper into the dark. The knock to his head throbs with the beat of his heart, which gets faster and faster. He doesn’t know if Becka has gotten clear of Stevie or not. He hears movement, but it could just be himself. Derek futilely scans the darkness as he holds his hands out for defense. Below he hears the dead moaning louder in response to his screaming.

I am not a zombie, Stevie states.

Yes, you are! Derek retorts without thinking.

Do they talk, you dick?

Sometimes, Derek knows he is acting foolish. He sheepishly returns to his compatriots.

Why are we up here? Stevie asks. I thought your room locked.

You’ve seen enough movies to know that higher ground is the safest place, Derek defends.

Finally, your dorkiness pays off, Becka teases.

Hey!

I say it with love, Becka lies back in the soft cloud. This is just what they needed at a time like this, she thinks to herself.

Sorry if I scared you guys, Stevie apologizes. This really hurts.

What hurts? inquires Becka.

My ankle. I think I caught it on a nail on the way up, Stevie touches the wound in the dark. He makes a hissing sound through his teeth as his blind inspection causes the gash to sting. I was holding pressure on it, but it just won’t stop bleeding.

Are you sure it was a nail? Derek tries to say without suspicion, but fails.

Yeah, I’m sure. What else could it be...? Don’t even say it, Stevie shakes his head. He can see where Derek is going with his question.

What now? Becka is lost.

He thinks one of them bit me.

Derek is already treading through the foam again, away from his peers, in the furrow he had plowed before.

We need to be sure, the frightened boy says in a high pitched, panicked voice.

I am not going to become a zombie, Stevie defensively states.

You might. Was it a nail or not? Derek is screaming.

Yes!

The dead below are moaning louder again. Becka needs to calm her friends.

Guys, she says patiently. Please. Let’s just…

I promise I won’t become one, Stevie says. Though he can’t be seen, Becka can hear in his voice that he is on the verge of tears.

Get out! Derek bellows.

What? the wounded boy’s question comes out as a wet sob.

Derek, Becka tries. Be reasonable.

No! Fuck reason! It’s my house and I want him out, Derek ignores the fact that his breathing is becoming labored. He pushes past the warning signs of an impending asthma attack. He wants to cast his friend out of the crawl space.

Derek, please, Becka is miserably failing as mediator.

I want him out! Out! Out! the adamant youth stomps the boards below him with every word to punctuate his point.

Becka faces her friend in the dark. She is about to speak to where his voice flies from, but is blinded by a sudden flash of light that glares off the insulation like snow on a sunny day. A loud crack accompanied the light. As she regains her sight, she notices the light is emanating from the ground. Her restored vision also shows her that Derek is gone.

7

The growling is getting louder. The yard is enclosed like the last house, as he presumes most of them are in the neighborhood. Narrow alleys flank the beige dwelling on either side. He can see the passage he is near is blocked at the middle by a wrought iron gate. He is unable to see the far alley, where he suspects the sound is coming from.

The soldier remains crouched on a lawn that needs mowing. The owners had probably given up the chore for the season. In the overgrown grass Dan can see spots that are dug up, and piles of dog poop. Other than that the yard is bare, just a plain of grass, no trees or flowers.

Dan holds out his weapon with its single bullet loaded in the breach. He walks sideways towards the next fence, keeping his eyes on the blind alley. Inch by inch he traverses the yard.

A large doghouse is erected in the alley. A dark shape moves within its opening. Dan’s breath catches in his throat. Judging from the shelter, the beast inside must be enormous. Growls echo from within.

The snarls turn into a high pitch wail as the canine charges from its home. Its lips are curled back to bare the teeth of a dachshund. The wiener dog rushes the soldier who has invaded its territory.

Dan chuckles in relief at the petite hound that closes the distance. It can still bite me, he realizes. He rushes to the fence. Within mere feet of the next wall, an unseen force trips him.

The dog bounds at the man, who starts to crawl backwards, away from the yapping monster. Dan’s back meets the wooden barrier between neighbors. He won’t waste a shot on the mongrel; instead he draws his knife and shields his face.

A few feet away and closing, the dog stops abruptly with a yelp. It flings itself backwards in a graceless somersault, landing on its side. The dog lies there briefly before slinking back to its home. The mutt coughs as it pulls on the chain that had cut its attack short. Dan can’t help but laugh at the poor creature’s acrobatic misfortune. He often thought about getting a dog. Dachshunds are supposed to be pretty nice.

Poor thing must be hungry, he says, pausing to dig into his pockets. He locates a few chunks of beef jerky that one of his guard buddies had divvied out that morning. The man’s wife had sent him out with two pounds of the dehydrated treat.

Here you go, Low-rider. He tosses the scraps of protein near the dog’s shelter. Dan notices it is painted the same beige color as the house. During his act of kindness Dan discovers something is missing from his pockets, his cell phone.

I put the jerky in the pocket with it… he retraces his steps in his head as he searches his other pouches. The fatigues have several pockets, and he slides exploratory fingers into each one. Nothing. He searches the yard where he had tumbled and finds nothing but the cause of his tripping, a sprinkler head pokes out of the ground, partially erupted.

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