I threw my rifle to the ground as I fell to my knees and burst into tears. My hands covered my face, so all you could see were the X’s on my hands. Flea stood behind me and kicked my ass. She told me “you better get the fuck up, you dumb bitch.” She was rather comical, in that kind of sense, even after what I had just done. She was my Hetero-life-partner, the Jay to my Silent Bob, the Cheech to my Chong, the Robin to my Batman. Forever “gerlfrands” we were. But we were never like that. I didn’t realize I had known her my entire life until the invasion.
We were walking Bear Street by the Carousel Mall. We were walking down Bear Street with Eight other people. We were walking down Bear Street with Jeremy, Barf, Alfalfa, Spud, Tiny, Dino, Lardass, Millie, Flea and myself, X. We were walking down Bear Street with ten rifles and 50 shells. We were walking down Bear Street with Low expectations.
Tammy Mason, 47. She was a day-shift cashier at the Onondaga Boulevard Wegmans. She’d been married to her second husband Bob for nine years. She was employee of the month in April, 1997 and June, 2004. She enjoyed recreational bowling. She was worried that her daughter Janie, 17, was not going to go to college, even though she’d been saving up for years. She and Bob enjoyed watching 50’s movies and had been going to the Syracuse Nationals since its first year. Bob had been restoring a ’63 Impala for the past four years that he picked up for $4500 just before the Panic hit. They had looked forward to entering it one day.
“You really think he is a bad man Father? The way I remember it, the Soldiers helped us during the panic.”
“Trust me, I’ve met this man before, He is as evil as sin itself. I could never forget his face.”
Two dark figures spoke quietly, the only light was that from an old light bulb hanging from a wire above them, it fluttered every so often, the only electricity was coming from an old gas generator. The two were in a basement, dark, dank, and as gloomy as the world outside.
“No, I’m absolutely sure of this one. He is the source of the dead rising, the outbreak, the deaths of millions of people. There is a reason he is here, God lead him to us, so we may purge the world of his evil.” Said the taller of the two figures before stepping towards the darkness of an adjacent wall.
The tall gray haired priest walked more into the light, his left eye had been badly damaged and was no longer able to see more than shadows, the eyelids were split, a long scar traveled from his brow to his cheek. The wound had long healed, leaving nothing but an unsightly reminder of the damage done. Next to him was a young blond girl, aside from the dirt and ragged clothes she could have been mistaken for an angel.
“Why would god want us to kill him? hasn’t enough blood been shed?” The girls voice was that of a siren, a haunting beauty.The man turned and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I know how you feel child, you just need to trust me on this… He is a bad man, and if we let him go, he will hunt us down and kill everyone here.” Said the priest, trying to assure her that they were not about to end the life of an innocent.
“You don’t have to let me go Marcus.” came a voice from the darkness.
Both the priest and the girl looked to where the voice came from, the lights fluttered brighter for a second. Against the wall was a man, his arms were pinned to the far cement wall. His shirt had been removed, and all across his sculpted and defined body were bruises and cuts clogged with dirt. He was wearing Multicam pants and Military boots. The man spat blood out onto the dirt floor before smiling and almost cheerfully exclaiming.
Characters: Lt. Meaker, Anthony Rodriguez, David Johnson, Jacob Smith, and Charlie Agotti
Place: Mattydale, Salina, New York.
Time: 2347 Hours 12/24/20–
Christmas in Syracuse. Normally a festive setting rests upon the city; now only the light snowfall and dim moonlight show any sign that time has not frozen along with the undead on the streets now devoid of life. The only vehicles that remain on the empty roads are long abandoned; most were used in attempts to gather loads of supplies for the nearby Blue Zone or to save some conglomeration of survivors who had put out distress signals. Sometimes the rescue team would arrive too late, after the survivors who had barricaded themselves turned on each other and then on the rescue team. The few U-Hauls and up-armored buses were heaps of junk on the roads, occupied by rodents or the dead.
The inevitable Christmas thaw had been approaching. The occupants of Blue Zone knew it, yet none ever mentioned it. Slater saw it fit to give the Corpse Corps a Christmas break. None were allowed outside of the safe zone, and everyone attempted as normal a holiday as they could. No one had much to give, upsetting many parents since they had little to surprise their children with other than socks and ZEDs, crudely put together toys made of kitchenware or tattered clothing that barely fit. The day off raised morale, but also discouraged many. In the attempt to spread Christmas cheer all that was accomplished was forcing the inhabitants of the Blue Zone to remember the situation they were all forced into. Even so, families prepared to make the best of it.
Vincent Condella fought to draw ragged breaths into lungs that shuddered in spasmodic waves, each one triggered by the sobs that twisted his face and pushed steady rivulets of tears from the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. He tried to focus on the cool concrete that pressed against his cheek, but it could not drown-out the fear and anxiety that shredded his heart…that pained him through every limb and fiber of his being. He opened his soaked and swollen eyes to glare at the room through his rotated perspective — the ninety-degree shift laying the depressing-looking cots on the wall at the same time it plastered the ceiling with a multitude of crayon drawings; the brightly chaotic figures in their primary-hued glory only made his sobs start anew. Vincent hurt so bad he had to cry out from deep in his stomach, or the loss would kill him.
Day 87, I went for a walk today to try and find a scrap of food, or hunt some kind of animal that hasn’t been bitten. I found myself down to Marshall Street. My brother used to work at the pizza shop on this street before…
I came to the building which once held his employment. It was dank, and dim. One of the front windows was shattered. Not the smallest fraction of glass was holding into the frame. The pieces were spread among the front sidewalk and in the interior of the lobby area, the place where people used to once stand in line and wait for their hot Italian pies in cardboard boxes. Cosmo’s Pizza… just the thought makes your mouth water. Dave truly knew how to cook a pie.
There was a door slightly angled to the left of the pizza shop, the glass is smashed out of it, also. Dare I walk up the stairs to see what used to be Halo Tattoo? I wouldn’t want to come across one of them, one of those who took my brother. I slowly opened the frame of the parlor door, and cautiously creeped up the stairs, toe by toe. The yellow walls were cracked larger than they were before the invasion. I beamed my flashlight through the opening where a door once was to see if there would be any movement in the upstairs room.
Meaker withdrew his blade from the temple of what was once a middle aged Businessman. The wet thud of the final Z hitting the road seemed deafening, only to be drowned out by the cheers of the Survivors behind him. Crowbars and lead pipes were thrust into the air in sync with the victory cries of those left standing. Meaker checked himself over to make sure he had not been bitten, his Kevlar plates were scratched and bitten but held up more than sufficiently. He wore a Black balaclava to ensure no Ghoul blood sprayed into his mouth, although most of his uniform was covered in the substance including his Balaclava, he managed to avoid infection again. The Sergeant, or more recent Lieutenant looked to the survivors left, More had survived the onslaught than he had expected, They had won the Battle of Mattydale. A small victory in a war that most of those cheering wouldn’t live to see the end of.
In the Zone, everyone had something to remind them of their past life. For most, it was something physical that they could hold onto and remember. For Arthur, it was his music. Different songs could take him back to those Wednesday nights out with his friends when he should have been studying for the next morning’s exam, the trip cross-country, or his many break-ups. Arthur and his mp3s were inseparable. Not even the undead could keep them apart.
Rose Butler was one of the oldest members of the zone. Her husband died a few years before the outbreak. Her son Lawrence was the only family that she had left. Rose and I were neighbors before the outbreak and again here in the Zone. When the word came to evacuate, I made her come with me. She didn’t want to. She insisted that her son was coming to get her, but I wanted to get out of the city as quickly as possible.
Lawrence and I were friends when we were younger. We grew up together, but after high school we grew apart. He spent a dozen or so years after graduation “finding himself”. I don’t know if he ever found what he was looking for. The last that I heard, he wanted to do something with animals.
Every morning when my squad would go out on patrol, Mrs. Butler would find me with the same request. “Find my Lawrence, and bring him back with you.” I always responded that I’d keep an eye out for him and she would smile. I knew that there was no way that I could ever find him, but she needed that hope to keep going.
Syracuse had succumbed to silence. The once busy and populated area now appeared to be deserted. A house stood on the corner of Melrose Drive and Hoytville Avenue. It loitered in the cold morning fog, a small but sturdy fortress. The building was only one story and about the size of a small barn. As if time itself stopped, it too, lay in a dead quiet. An 8-foot stone wall tightly surrounded the home but for an entrance which was blocked off with a white van. Every window on the house was smothered by 2×4’s and sloppily hammered nails. The silence continued for several minutes until a slow shuffle shattered it. A decaying ghoul wandered aimlessly around its environment, looking only for its next meal. Its lifeless eyes searched the road ahead. Then, almost immediately, its head turned toward the house like a compass pointing north. It’s jaw (what was left) released and the creature let out a low, gargling moan. A moth to flame, it headed for the blocked entrance of the stone wall, arms outstretched. The Z moved closer to its newfound prey until it finally smacked into the side of the van, emitting a loud “clank” noise, followed by yet another moan.
Slater and Meaker were sitting on top of an overheated M113. It was dripping something yellow from underneath its shell. The men inside had already found another ride. Like them it would sit there until it rusted. The trip from Albany had been quick but loud. The guys up front had plowed an awful lot of cars off the road to allow the army west. Like the steaming Abrams, they both knew this was the end of the line for them.
“This is a Marine Corps base? And Air National Guard? Maybe those guys aren’t such pussies after all…”
