After The End

Copyright 2014 Melissa A. Gibbo

First and foremost, I would like to thank my
wife, Brenna, for all she’s contributed. She has read this story
dozens of times, provided me with honest feedback, sacrificed date
nights, been awakened by my typing at 4AM, and still loved me
enough to allow me to pursue this dream.

I am also thankful to my family, and close
friends for their patience and indulgence. This story absorbed my
attentions for long durations and I am lucky to have such support.
Thank you to my parents, John and Pattie, and sister, Heather, for
always being there and reassuring me when doubt got the upper
hand.

Thanks to the Orange County Library System,
particularly Jen and Marianne, for the wealth of assistance they
offered. Whether it was a stack of books on writing or kind words
of encouragement, it made all the difference.

Thanks to my friends and readers who have put
up with my jabbering over the characters and conflict.

Thanks to the numerous teachers who made
reading enjoyable and to the many authors whose stories give my
life joy and inspiration.

And finally, I would like to dedicate this
book to the memory of my Grandma Mary, Grandpa Bob, and Papa Bill.
They didn’t get to see me publish, but they never doubted that I
could do anything I put my mind to. I’m thankful for the time I had
with them and the time I continue to have with my family, who
believe in me every day.

I kneel in the darkness, shifting the ashes
of our encampment. The vampire watches me intently as I pull
destroyed knives and cookware from the rubble, the remnants of our
former life. He probably came with me as much to keep Daemon and I
apart as to aid me in my recon. The groans of the risen Dead
amplified; my burnt journal sits in the skeleton of my cabin.

“Are you ready, Squirrel? It would seem we
will not be alone much longer.”

I leaf through the pages and find some of the
writing intact. The shuffling of a zombie grows nearer. Cal prods
some of the ruins, kicking dirt and bullet casings with a frown.
Placing the journal in my bag, I stand and rub my cracking hands
together.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got enough info to make
the decision.”

It was barely a whisper, but I know the
Undead Roman can hear me. He nods and moves towards me as the
fleshie stumbles into view. Florida weather has not been kind to
it. We watch the lone corpse as it lumbers on a broken leg and
opens its sagging jaw; three broken teeth inhabit the rotting
cavity. The stench of decay and mildew reach me and set my stomach
tumbling. It’s amazing how much longer they last after the humid
summer ends; a little cool dry air and these fleshies get a
reprieve from Mother Nature.

My companion steps to put it down and I wave
him off. Closing the distance to the creature, I draw my broadsword
up on the diagonal, slicing the head from chin to temple. Black
blood arcs through the air; the cadaver crumbles to the ground in a
moist thump. Wiping my blade on its torn Disney tee, I turn to
leave with Cal. The others will be expecting us.

I’m rewriting my journal of life since the
zombie outbreak, using the one I lost in the fire, my memory, and
the calendar I carry. I met Chase and Sunny around a month after
this Cadaver Fest started.

The air had begun to grow dry and cool as I
hunted for food in the wild lands beyond the Orlando city limits. I
trekked further from the Dead-laced asphalt river in search of
game; even with the light breezes, direct sunlight kept my tee
glued to me with sweat. The books I’d taken from the library
shifted in my backpack and dug into my sore muscles; the camp
shovel and broadsword each swung awkwardly from my hips. I froze at
the muffled sound of footsteps.

Peering through the brush, I pulled taut the
high-tech slingshot — I wasn’t that good with my bow yet. I saw a
couple talking: the guy looked like Rob Lowe with a Jim Carrey grin
and terrible sunburn, the lady was the girl next door type with a
fitted tee and old jeans. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to
approach.

Lowering my weapon, I made sure to tread
loudly so I wouldn’t startle the pair. I felt my heart jumping with
my empty stomach; I hadn’t dealt with any other survivors in three
weeks according to my calendar. That last interaction hadn’t ended
well...

An ax and makeshift spear both pointed at
me.

“Hi. I don’t mean any harm; I just thought
maybe we could help each other for a bit.”

They exchanged glances while I waited and
tried to maintain my mellow. The weapons lowered and the guy
stepped forward with an outstretched hand.

“Um, hi. I’m Chase and this is my wife Sunny.
Sorry about the standoff; crazy days lately. So what do you go
by?”

At that moment, I spotted a squirrel digging
nearby. On reflex, I shot it and announced “Squirrel”. Apparently,
they thought I was either touched-in-the-head or that my folks were
hippies, cause they just went with it and I’ve been known as
Squirrel ever since.

“Nice to meet you, Squirrel.” Sunny forced a
smile. “Why don’t we all have a seat and eat something. It couldn’t
hurt to have another human being around.”

Sunny brushed her auburn hair out of her face
while Chase began pulling cans of vegetables from a bag. I cleaned
my quarry and we ate a sparse meal. The moans from the swarms of
fleshies on the defunct roadway drifted to us sporadically. I tried
to push down the memories that rose with each guttural utterance. I
decided to leave behind that life and become the survivor known as
Squirrel.

Over the next few weeks, the three of us
became a team and we learned more about one another. Each time talk
brought us to our losses, we would focus instead on practicing
hunting or fighting the zombies who’d driven us together.

When this chaos started: Chase worked in a
call center, Sunny was a server at Denny’s, and I was a minimum
wager in one of the local theme parks. Not exactly the kind of jobs
that prepare you for an end of the world scenario, but somehow here
we are.

Fortunately, Chase remembered some of his
ROTC training from when he was younger and loves camping. Sunny has
a far more common sense and foresight than the two of us. Her
worries and problem solving keeps us alert and in the game. Her
teal eyes seem to soak in the world; except when she wields the
“Mom Glare”. It’s that look that your mom can throw your way to
make you stop dead in your tracks no matter what you’re doing.

Sometimes, I tease her that if she’d just use
that look on the Dead, they’d wander off all downtrodden and
remorseful. It usually earns me the look, but they say good morale
and a sense of humor are important to keeping sane under bad
conditions. Between our combined knowledge, skills, and gear we
have become the underdogs that endure. Even Vegas wouldn’t have bet
on us.

Our first day together, we all agreed on a
basic survival plan: avoid staying in major cities, guns, and
hospitals, as these were the things we felt the masses flocked
to.

The theory is large crowds of people are
likely to draw large crowds of zombies. Not to mention the high
odds that someone in their midst is already infected and their
friends are simply unwilling to do the necessary deed. Military
installations also draw the multitudes, first the living and then
the Dead. Before the news reports stopped, the bases and hospitals
were High-def cesspools with crystal clear death rattles echoing
through the barricaded homes.

Every so often, another person or group would
cross our path. A guy we call Bubba comes and goes frequently. He
says he likes to travel through the wreckage of civilization in
search of adventure but I always thought adventure was code for a
special someone. Some people joined us, a few moved on, and others
died. Life went on.

It was a month or two after the dearly
departed refused to stay gone, before the Vampires decided to
announce themselves. I suppose the human overpopulation problem
stopped being an issue a lot quicker than they’d originally
expected.

Learning about the existence of a race of
people who drink human blood and live for centuries, is much easier
to accept once you’ve already come to terms with things like your
deceased babysitter chasing you down the street with her intestines
snagging debris on the ground. Either that or it will thrust you
over the precipice of sanity and you’ll be dead within the week. It
happens.

Cal’s arrival was epic in its simplicity.
That fall night, as the three of us huddled around the squat fire
planning our guard shifts, he merely: walked between Chase and me,
sat next to the pit, dropped a sack, and declared,

“I brought you all some dinner.”

Just like that.

Five silent minutes later, I thanked him as
we began cooking our surprise meal. Sunny asked our guest his name
as Chase started to watch the darkness for others.

Over the crackling meat, we heard the reply
“My name is Caelinus Gaius. I am a vampire and would like to
propose an opportunity for your group.”

I would like to say we acted swiftly and
calmly at these words; but we didn’t. All at once, three things
happened while Cal looked on: Chase fumbled with his axe (cutting
his hand in the process), Sunny toppled off the rock asking
“seriously?”, and I just turned the smoldering raccoon over and
stirred the can of corn.

The vampire held out his hand to help Sunny
to her feet and spoke.

“Yes, it is true.”

Chase was at his feet — his axe in hand with
a drizzle of scarlet along the handle — eyes riveted on his wife.
She saw the blood and grabbed the bandages, cautiously keeping from
turning her back to our guest. The vampire’s eyes glimmered with a
red tinge as he watched the rivulet of blood. I checked around the
darkness for signs of more surprises and set out our bowls.

I was spooning the concoction into dishes
when I opted to break the stillness.

“Well this is awkward. Thanks for the dinner.
Um, just to clarify is this a last meal to fatten us up?”

Cal laughed at me, his eyes returning to a
light hazel color; my heart slowed back to a moderate pace.

“It is meant more as an olive branch to begin
our conversation peacefully”.

Satisfied with his response, I thought with
my mouth.

“Okeydokey. Guess we’d already be drained if
you wanted to kill us and you probably wouldn’t have wasted time
getting us chow, so I’m willing to listen.”

I threw the couple a glance, they nodded
their consent, and Cal took the floor.

“I would like to offer my skills and strength
to you in exchange for your providing me with sustenance. I assure
you, my considerable age allows me to need very little blood to
survive. I am also vastly experienced in combat and maintaining an
encampment. I can protect you from the rising Dead at night if you
cause me no harm during the day. We can aid one another’s continued
existence; all that is needed between us is trust.”

I don’t think I even asked for any proof he
was actually an immortal super-being before I blurted out “sure”.
It appeared possible given all the other strange occurrences. Sunny
and Chase leaned their heads together to discuss their
concerns.

By the time the supper had cooled enough to
eat, we’d all agreed to a tentative bargain. Our conditions were
basic: Cal would follow our rules about guns and crowds, we would
still stand watches with him, and he would drink only what he
needed. The pact was born and we became four.

Cal was already a middle-aged Roman
under-commander in the legion when he was brought across. He
maintains his blond-gray hair short and posture stern even
centuries after the empire’s fall. The Roman Undead has nearly two
millennia of wisdom and experience in camping, combat, and
leadership as well as pristine control of his powers. He used a
display of his quickness to catch us some extra dinner and seal the
deal.

It didn’t take long to realize that teaming
up with a guy wanting to drink some of my blood is a much better
deal than facing down the monsters that are trying to consume all
of my body parts. Plus, I really like to sleep.