Learning to Live with Death: Untitled

By Paul May

Alex Rhodes is at a loose end.  In spite of the zombie apocalypse, the world is still turning and Alex—for lack of a better option—sets out to track down the love of his life.  Aided by an unwilling sidekick and a self-proclaimed Ruler of the Undead, Alex fights to survive long enough to finally go on a date.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maypress
• Release date: Nov 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781950753079

Book preview

Prologue

It was late in the day and hunger gnawed at Greg Alderson. He wasn’t starving, exactly. His stomach hadn’t growled yet, but he was bored enough to indulge the early signs of hunger.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt a discomfort in his belly. He even began to debate sitting up straight in his Power Executive Series: All-Natural Leather CEO Model Chair. He bought it several years ago because he wanted to know how it would feel to be an important executive with a high profile and a large portfolio. It came with lumbar support, CEO-status leather, twelve programmable comfort positions, and a massive price tag.

At first, the official chair of powerful executives was a fine choice for the expense. It held him like an egg on a soft pillow and made Greg feel princely, all scooched up to his computer desk. In Greg’s version of events, the chair was a cushiony haven from the demands of life. In reality, the relationship between man and chair had turned sour within a matter of weeks.

Like a frog simmering in a kettle, Greg’s back nagged him. The amazing lumbar support felt more like an overloading on lunch that pushed in every direction against his bloated stomach. Sharp twinges of pain frequently shot up his lower back and climbed along his midsection. Neither the memory foam nor his aches forgot each other when they were apart.

He would never admit it to anyone, but Greg had developed a love-hate relationship with the chair. He loved to brag about it, but hated to sit in it. The braggart in him won out. Unable to confess he didn’t actually like his chair, he drew his proverbial line in the sand and planted his ass on his side of it.

Here his gut grew.

Greg leaned away from his computer screen and scanned the room for morsels of food that he may have missed earlier. Empty bags of chips, soda cans, beer bottles, and candy wrappers lay scattered about the room; leftover carnage from previous interludes between boredom and productivity.

Several hours had passed since his mid-afternoon snack of marshmallows and beer, which may have been the last of his food. Top to bottom, his three-story condominium was bereft of anything remotely edible. The few cans of soup didn’t count because they took too much work to prepare. Facing facts, he was out of food.

With a grunt that grew into a groan, Greg pushed himself away from his computer and stood. He would have to go next door to see if it was still inhabited by the little old lady with the weird walk and the pleasant smile that was either from many years of contentment or the absence of teeth. He was pretty sure her name started with an S. Samantha or something, he pondered aloud. It had been weeks since he had seen her and he wondered if she had vacated by choice, by force, or by misadventure. Whatever the reason, she was probably long-gone.

Greg waddled down to the first floor, where he stopped to put on a pair of barely used cross-trainer sneakers.

With another grunt, he reached for his baseball bat. Outside, an onslaught of sunlight bombarded him. He squinted to scan the condo grounds for signs of life, but saw only the usual few cars. It had been a good while since he’d seen or heard any activity from his neighbors.

Greg swatted a dandelion head with the bat on his stroll to Samantha’s place. Alrighty, he chirped. Let’s see what Granny has for grub!

He rattled the doorknob, expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t and the front door easily swung open. He moseyed inside with dreams of homemade cookies and pies. With the knowledge that every condo in the complex had the same layout, he made a beeline for the fridge and popped it open. His jaw dropped at the sight of almost no food. 

He exclaimed in bewilderment, A box of egg whites, two sticks of butter, and half a bottle of prune juice? 

He shut the refrigerator in abject disappointment. What kind of old bag has an empty refrigerator? Didn’t his taxes pay for her food? Maybe she was using her government food money on cats. Cat people are always known for hoarding pantries full of tuna. In her case, they were probably long-dead and her cans were ready in case they ever returned from the dead. 

Ha ha, he thought in self-amusement. Come back from the dead. Thoughts of a shelf full of canned tuna lured him to the pantry, where he opened the door to a veritable treasure trove that surpassed any old tuna. Therein lay boxes of tea, armfuls of potato chip bags, cases of soda, Samantha, all kinds of crackers, and jars of jams. Driven by hunger, he dropped the bat and reached for the crackers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg realized Samantha was in the pantry with him. He dropped his booty and stammered, Sorry, I didn’t know you were home.

The withered old lady managed a look that made him feel four years old. She opened her mouth and he quaked nervously as he awaited a stern talking to. Suddenly, her palm lashed out striking his head from his body where it rolled across the kitchen floor.

Greg’s head came to rest with one eye leaning on a cabinet door and the other probing a cold tile on the floor. 

He realized he hadn’t closed the front door. His mind raced for a way to save his Power Executive Series: All-Natural Leather CEO Model Chair from jealous intruders. 

Then the world went black.

1

How on Earth had it all come to this?

Solomon Frederick Sykes sniffed back the relentless drips surging from his nostrils. His sleeve was soaked through with mucus.

He stared at his lap and tried not to think about the situation beyond the room of the small apartment. It was the same room he and his companion, Alex, had camped in the night before. 

That was before Sykes ran for his life and left Alex to certain death.

That was hours ago. Apart from destroying idiots online, running was basically what ‘SoloMan’ Sykes did best. Other hobbies included creating bestiaries, memorizing comic book dialogue, and engrossing himself in any other activity spent in the pleasure of his own company. Sykes was too busy to notice until somebody had called him SoloMan, which fit a little too well. SoloMan could always be relied upon to bolt for safety with signs of danger, bodily harm, or general threats of discomfort. It was still preferable to his childhood nickname, Psycho Sykes. That one had plagued him until the world ended and the people who knew him had dropped dead. 

Sykes rubbed his bloodshot eyes, exhausted from running for his life. And from excessive uncontrollable sobbing.

He was exhausted from living with himself, trapped within the prison of his body with nothing but his own thoughts for company. 

Pain seared through his calves with every move. It would be impossible to run again tonight. His best chances for survival hinged on a peaceful night. Tactical withdrawals and crying were hard work. He felt out of tears, out of dry sleeves, and out of patience for his faucet of a nose.

Sykes thought back over the day’s events, including when he and Alex had been out scavenging. Supplies were hard enough to come by without also having to rush to gather as much as they could handle. If anything was left behind, they always found a nondescript way to mark the spot. The same approach was useful for shelter. Usually an empty place stayed that way and improved his daily chances for survival. 

Survival always came first. The dead rising quickly reminded everyone of that. In the end, Sykes knew it all hinged on life, liberty, and the pursuit of not dying. Naturally, eating, staying in shape, and employing any means necessary to avoid the walking dead were key factors to prevent becoming a flesh and blood sandwich. It had been a lucky coincidence for him that fitness aligned so well with his instinct to flee threats. Unfortunate for his former co-survivor that Alex didn’t share the same appreciation for self-preservation or fitness. He and many others would still be alive if they could run with such swiftness. 

It was a shame about Alex, but that’s the way the tortoise finishes. The last time he saw Alex alive had been in a downtown commercial district, passing the local pharmacy. A man emerged from the doorway, catching the pair off guard. Sykes’ brilliant mind immediately calculated that the man was a rotter by the large crowbar through his neck. 

Hopelessly outmatched and outnumbered, Sykes transformed into his SoloMan persona—most easily recognized by the dust cloud in his wake and the residual echoes of a scream—and took off.

Now Sykes cowered against the wall of the empty apartment, unable to face this harsh world on his own. He resented that Alex would just go and die on him, too. In the end, Alex was just another imbecile who lacked the wherewithal run for his life.

A sudden noise jarred Sykes from his funk. His attention instantly attuned to footsteps outside of the second-story window. How could a zombie get up to the second level deck? Only yesterday, he had supervised Alex removing the stairs with a sledgehammer. It wasn’t possible for a zombie to climb up, but, in spite of that, the sound of feet on wood continued.

Sykes stood up. His lean body tensed and he kept his breathing shallow so as to avoid detection. 

Sykes noticed a human silhouette just beyond the glass door leading to the deck. It was too late to secure the door without giving his position away. Sykes would have to ignore the pain in his legs and daringly escape into the dark. 

He hated the darkness of night. Anything could lurk in it and there was nowhere to run when he couldn’t see. Nothing hampered survival of the fittest quite like running straight into the broad side of a barn. 

Zombies, brainless creatures that they were, didn’t know to be scared of the dark. Maybe, Sykes thought, Zombies weren’t afraid because they could see in the dark.

Nobody ever predicted that zombies would have night vision! Not one horror movie ever attributed that power to zombies. Sykes began to lament that they could probably fly now, too. That would certainly explain how that dead bastard got up to the upper deck. He flew! 

In a flash, SoloMan Sykes turned to run out of the room and straight into a man running toward him at the same velocity. They collided, knocking him to the floor by his reflection. The man in the mirror scattering into a flurry of shards. 

Sykes spun his head around in wide-eyed terror. He quickly returned to his feet and bolted for the door, ready to take his chances by leaping from the deck. It was worth the risk to rush past a possible flying zombie. 

Palm on handle, he suddenly recognized Alex’s ghostly face grinning fiercely through the window.

The dead heard SoloMan’s pleas for his mother from miles away.

2

Weeks ago, it had been just another day at Peaceful Corners Elderly Processing Center and Spa. That is, normal for everyone except ‘Gruff’ Dixon Adams.

The day began like any other: predictably calm and entirely average, but this day was different. It was his 79th birthday. 

Dixon had spent his entire career in the Army and maintained a requisitely short cut, though male pattern baldness was doing much of the work at this point. He did not miss the trip to the barber, who would pull out the trimmer and then deprive him of ten bucks.

Although he was well-liked, most were somewhat on their guard around him, which led to his being nicknamed ‘Gruff’ during the home’s poker night. Dixon feigned a dislike for the name, but secretly enjoyed the good nature of those around him in his waning years.

Physically, Dixon was fit, even after a series of small strokes reduced normal motion in his right leg, which made a wheelchair the better choice for long trips down the hall. Despite putting on a few pounds, his sculpted features remained well enough defined. Somehow he even managed to stay clean-shaven at all hours. And he still had a natural way of staring people down, even without intending to. 

Though the end of summer season approached, the climate was comfortably warm, a treat compared to most of Dixon’s birthdays. Uncommonly, the chill of a New England fall had yet to hint at its inevitability.

The birthday boy chose to spend as many sunny days outside on the farmer’s porch as he could and was sure not to miss this chance. Other residents rocked in unison on the front porch, creating a metronomic rhythm of toes against hardwood. Behind him, the nurses carried on their daily gossip.

Dixon shimmied from his stiff wheelchair to one of the padded rockers that overlooked the vast lawn. He sat and waited, nodding politely at birthday salutations as they came. He kept his thoughts to himself as he gazed stoically at the long, gravel driveway, descending from the turnabout and winding to intersect at the road just beyond view.

Dixon figured his son and daughter-in-law might show up for his birthday, as the couple did on occasion. In the past, they would call if they couldn’t make it. They always sounded guilty when that happened, though it didn’t bother Dixon in the least. He knew they had their own lives, and he’d been just as busy at their age. While he understood, he held onto a general hope that he would see them and his grandson—now a teenager and busier than anyone else could ever possibly be.

Dixon Adams continued watching the sky and the grass as it hungrily ingested intense beams of radiation. His eyes stayed locked on the driveway and he didn’t miss the moment a familiar blue minivan rounded the corner.

Much like the road it traversed, this vehicle had been well-used, evidenced by its numerous rust patches and bald tires. Its hood closed on the driver’s side, but crooked into a two-inch gap at the passenger’s side to give the appearance of a crooked smile. The van pulled into a parking spot by the lawn, unleashing a rusty squeal as it came to rest.

The Adamses had arrived.

Adams sighed and steeled himself for the next few hours. He liked to see them and hear them talk, though they inexplicably wanted him to talk back. An unfortunate hope because he didn’t have much to ever say. Sometimes he would offer a monosyllabic gesture as proof that he was still present and alive, but his disinterest showed and traditionally failed to move the conversation forward.

The front doors of the van swung open and Dixon watched his son—skinny and losing his blonde hair—and daughter-in-law—in baggy clothes to thinly conceal the exact point where her body ceased to protrude.

The couple stepped out, still engrossed in whatever discussion kept them going through the ride. Each took a turn waving to Dixon before his daughter-in-law withdrew a rectangular box and a plastic bag from the back. They marched towards the front porch, engrossed in an animated conversation about which roads would have shaved the most precious minutes from their three-hour drive.

As the humdrum couple neared the porch, the rear door of the caravan rolled open. At first, there was no sign of life from inside. Within moments, a slender and morose figure oozed forth and began to sulk its way up to the porch.

At one point, this murky creature had more obviously been human, but now its eyes were severely bloodshot with dark bags under them. Its face was expressionless and sallow, adorned with a neckband and spiky wristbands. It wore tattered, black clothes several sizes too large that hung loosely from its waifish body. Pocket chains dangled and jangled loudly with each step he took.

Dixon recognized the beast as his grandson, Charlie, and his attention piqued. Even Charlie’s hair had been dyed from brown to match the rest of his black wardrobe. The only things on him that weren’t black were the blazing neon blue coloring on his shoes, sleeves, and matching eye makeup. 

Dixon could hardly believe it, nearly overlooking the plate-shaped button filling Charlie’s gauged ear. Dixon’s grandson was such a bizarre display that the other residents looked away out of embarrassment. Some mustered the ability to smile at him with earnest gratitude that Charlie was not their own. Dixon smiled earnestly. He had a genuine puzzle of oddities to explore. 

For his part, Dixon could relate to what the angst-ridden boy was going through, revisiting his own teenage years. He had rebelled once. Insecure and overwhelmed by the mechanisms of the world around him, young Dixon had decided to grow a goatee. 

He could still recall the thrill of something growing around his mouth. In just three days it had already become a full crop of peach fuzz. His rebellion came to an abrupt finale when his father firmly reassured him that he looked like an idiot. Dixon immediately surrendered.

Charlie Montgomery Adams, on the other hand, had pushed the limits beyond the entire ancestry of Adams-kind. 

Dixon didn’t show any sign of shock or intrigue to his family as they came up the front walk. Instead he read them. They wanted to be somewhere else. Dixon understood. He’d like to be somewhere else. Some place better than a home for geezers, where the people were doing something other than being old. 

Reality had a tendency for the harsh. Instead, he worked to focus on life’s simple diversions. He nodded slightly as his visitors clumsily pulled up chairs and sat beside him on the porch. He drifted through idle chit chat and eventually began to gather intelligence on Charlie. Dixon poked and pried at the subject, only to receive absent grunts and disinterested groans in reply. Meanwhile, his son and daughter-in-law tried to appear unruffled. 

Each took turns at maneuvering the conversation away from his interrogation by interjecting small talk. Dixon was left without so much as a clue. Eventually, the teenager withered into his chair and put his head down. And so the family reunion commenced. 

For gifts, Dixon received a new alarm clock with glowing hands, as if his bladder wasn’t enough to rouse him from slumber ridiculously early in the morning. He opened another package to find a short-sleeved brown and green plaid shirt that reminded him of his old fatigues. The third, a rose-speckled package, contained an electric razor. It looked similar to the one they got him several years earlier, which remained unused in its original box under the bed. Adams couldn’t seem to convince his son that he preferred a good old fashioned blade to a noisy, pocket-sized weed trimmer. 

After several hours of being spoken at and getting no answers about Charlie, Dixon felt a soft wind usher away the stagnant heat and introduced a chill to the air. He put his flannel shirt on, letting the tag dangle loosely from one sleeve. The sun set, blanketing the sky in violet wisps silhouetted against a soft blue spread. Dixon felt comfortable and tired. He looked over at his grandson who, slumped in his chair, looked to have slept the entire time. 

Dixon rolled his eyes, smiled at his grandson, and, giving a wink, leaned to nudge the heavy sleeper with his elbow. As he reached over, Charlie reacted with a churlish moan and grabbed his grandfather by the arm. Still half amused, Dixon couldn’t act before Charlie’s teeth sank through the frail skin of his forearm. It had been so unexpected that he sat back in shock and applied pressure where the skin had been torn.

Dixon’s son called one of the nurses out—the pretty one with the soothing voice. In an effort to keep Charlie out of serious trouble with the hospital, Dixon concocted a story that he had been careless and cut his arm with a pair of scissors during his gift-opening frenzy.

He didn’t want to see Charlie’s life become more complicated. The nurse bought the story, as she was too absorbed in the drama of bandaging Dixon’s arm to notice that his wound bore the unmistakable pattern of teeth marks. After she wrapped it too tight, she left the room to file an incident report.

Soon after, Dixon’s family excused themselves to make the long trip home. They were visibly shaken and tried to explain the incident as a result of being overworked at school and lack of sleep. 

Dixon hugged his son and daughter-in-law goodbye as they each wished him one more happy birthday. They led Charlie away by the arm, hauling him stiffly back to the van. Dixon told his son to drive safe and waved as they pulled away.

Dixon was wheeled back up to his room, where he ate his supper in bed and watched TV. Hours passed before he received a call from his son to announce their safe return home. He smiled when he told them that one of the nurses had tacked his birthday card to the door. Nobody mentioned the bite directly, and Dixon was glad to learn Charlie had gone to bed early, worn out from the trip. He was content to let it go, excusing it as part of Charlie’s angst. It would be one of many life experiences that were sure to come. 

Dixon hung up and read himself to sleep.

Outside, the air had cooled and the crickets chirped a pleasant melody. The sun had gone down. One by one, the lights went out at Peaceful Corners Elderly Processing Center and Spa. Tomorrow’s forecast predicted another lovely day.

3

*B OOP*-------*BOOP*-------*BOOP*------*BOOP*

Gracie Williams sat up in her bed at the Peaceful Corners Elderly Processing Center and Spa. It was early in the afternoon and almost two hours since her roommate, Peanut Butter