Most of them were on foot, some without shoes. They ran down the street without looking back. The survivalist types were armed with assault rifles. I wasn’t sure what type, but they were the kind you saw in movies. A few of the others clutched weapons or belongings, but most of the people in the fleeing crowd were empty-handed. A black Lexus coasted among them, car horn blaring, the driver trying to get through. A man dressed like he was going deer hunting spun around and fired three shots through the windshield. Screaming, the people around him scattered. The man calmly approached the car, opened the door, tossed the driver to the pavement, and then slid behind the wheel. Another guy raced by on a motorcycle, weaving in and out of the pedestrians.
The dead came next. They were mostly human, but there were a few animals as well. Some of the zombies were missing limbs. Others had huge, ugly wounds that wept blood and pus-injuries that should have been fatal. One shirtless corpse was missing its entire abdomen. A few strands of gristle hung down to its crotch. The gaping stomach cavity was empty—no organs, just pink meat and bones. I wondered if it still craved living flesh, and if so, what happened after it had eaten. How could it digest anything without a fucking stomach? How could they process food when they were dead? And why didn’t they eat each other instead of munching on the living?
A naked dead man stepped out of the alley and passed through my yard. He was covered with dirt and blood, and his skin was a dark bluish-purple, the color of a bruise. There was something else wrong with him, too, but I couldn’t tell what it was until he turned toward my house again. Then I saw what was wrong. His genitals were missing—replaced by a big, bloody hole. I recognized the dead man as one of my former neighbors. Never knew his name, never talked to him while he was living. Just the occasional head nod from over the fence. And now here he was, dickless and dead.
A few of the creatures were obviously from some of the higher-income parts of the city. I wondered what had brought them to my neighborhood. Had they come here while they were still alive, forced to flee into the ghetto, a place they would never have set foot in under normal conditions? Or had they come here after death, hunting for food? The corpse of a white yuppie wandered down the street, arms outstretched and mouth open. His distended belly was swollen with gas. Two shards of red, broken glass jutted from his forehead like horns. Despite the horror, I had to laugh. He looked like Satan in a Burberry shirt. Another dead man was dressed in the tattered vestiges of a Catholic priest. Apparently, they weren’t immune either.
The creatures shuffled along behind their fleeing prey, oblivious to the spreading flames. The dead didn’t give a shit about fire. Their only concern was dinner—and dinner was served. You’d think that as slow as they moved, the zombies wouldn’t have been able to catch anyone. But they did. All it took was one stumble, one misstep. Get yourself backed into a corner, pause for a loved one, fall and twist your ankle, and that was it. You got eaten. I watched it happen right in front of me. One woman simply seemed to give up. She glanced over her shoulder, watched her house go up in flames, and then sat down in the middle of the street. Another man tried to pull her up, urge her on, but the woman waved him away. When he insisted, she slapped at him. He hurried away, resigned to letting her commit suicide. I didn’t blame him. It never occurred to me to go to her rescue, either.
The first of the corpses fell on her, biting into her scalp with cracked yellow teeth. An undead dog was next. The monster buried its snout in her belly and pulled out something wet and purple that glistened in the moonlight. Through it all, the woman didn’t scream. She looked peaceful.
I envied her.
Many times after things fell apart, I’d wanted to give up, throw in the towel, and see what happened next. I wasn’t religious. Didn’t believe in God. Didn’t believe in an afterlife. But anything, even empty oblivion, had to be better than this. Like I said, survival instinct is a motherfucker, but why fight to stay alive when living itself had become such a horror? Alan and I had discussed it at length, even before our conversation at the grocery store, and neither one of us could come up with a very good reason. We didn’t have loved ones who were counting on us. Had no faith that mankind would turn the tables and win the day. Civilization was pretty much finished, as far as we’d been concerned, yet we still fought on. The will to survive was strong, even when we didn’t want it to be—until Alan got bitten, of course. And that hadn’t been his choice.
Why go on? I don’t know. Don’t have an answer for that question. But I did go on. Every single time I faced down dead men walking, I fought to live.
A few blocks away, there were acres of abandoned houses and buildings. Before Hamelin’s Revenge, they’d been rife with drug dealers and squatters and crime. Oftentimes, the older folks in the neighborhood would comment that the whole area should be burned down. All it would have taken was one match; the buildings were that deplorable. I wondered if that was what had happened. The fire was coming from that direction.
I got up from the window and ran back to the bedroom. The smoke was stronger, the fires drawing nearer. It burned my nose and throat, and I breathed in short little gasps. The flames grew louder, crackling and licking at my neighbor’s homes. I heard a building collapse. Heard a child crying. A car horn blared. A gunshot rang out. And above it all, I heard the screams of the living. And even above the stench of the smoke, I could smell the dead.
There was a rapid-fire series of explosions. They were distant, by the sound, but coming closer. I slipped into my clothes and boots and grabbed my backpack. As quickly as I could, I threw in what canned food I could carry without being overburdened, as well as bottled water, matches, and other things I’d need to survive. I popped open the revolver’s cylinder and dumped out the spent shells. I’d shot the zombie and Alan, and had two bullets left. I grabbed a long butcher knife from the kitchen and duct taped it to my leg so that I wouldn’t cut myself. There was another explosion, louder this time. The house shook. My bookshelves rocked back and forth, spilling DVDs and compact discs to the floor. Pictures fell from the wall. Something heavy rained down on my roof.
I took the remaining water and dumped it all over myself, making sure my clothes, hair, and skin were wet. I soaked a washcloth and held it over my nose and mouth with one hand. Clutched the pistol in the other. And then stood there in the middle of my living room and wondered what the fuck to do next.
I couldn’t just go out the front door. Smoke in halation would kill me before I got the barricade tore down. Even if I did make it, the street was full of zombies. I could shoot two of them, but then what? Stab them with my knife? That wouldn’t work. One of the weird things with Hamelin’s Revenge was that you had to destroy the infected corpse’s brain. Nothing else worked, except for maybe incinerating them. I could outrun them for a little while, but eventually I’d tire or the smoke would get the best of me.
Stay here, a voice whispered inside my head. Just sit down and relax. Go to sleep. Quit running. It’s easier. Why bother anymore? Does it really matter? Does anything really matter? Maybe Alan was right. Maybe this would be easier.
I had to admit, the idea was tempting. Go back to bed and wait for the fire to engulf the house. With luck, I’d be dead before the flames even reached me. But I’d seen a documentary about burn victims. Last two things to burn were the heart and the brain. If the smoke didn’t kill me, I’d be alive that whole time, aware as I burned to death.