Dead Sea (4 page)

    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. 1 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. 1 slipped into my clothes and boots and grabbed my backpack. As quickly as 1 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.

    That wasn't an option.

    Deciding fast, I grabbed the hammer and ran back into the kitchen. There was a small window over the sink, and I'd nailed a single piece of plywood over it. Six nails stood between freedom and me. They screeched as I yanked them loose. I tore the board free and tossed it to the floor. Then I checked outside. The narrow alley behind my house was full of smoke, but otherwise deserted. I smashed the glass with the butt of the pistol and then tossed the backpack outside. Then I crawled through the window. Keeping the wet washcloth pressed to my face, I crouched down, retrieved the backpack, and crept through the darkness. I stayed bent over, trying to stay as low to the ground as possible, down where the air was better. Discarded trash crunched under my feet. The alley was full of debris: empty beer cans, used condoms, candy wrappers, and cigarette butts. A dead man lay sprawled on his back across the concrete. His skin looked like a greasy, bloated sausage casing. A red hole was in the middle of his forehead. He wasn't coming back. Holding my breath, I stepped over him.

    All around me were screams and the crackling of flames. The neighborhood was a Molotov cocktail and God had just tossed the fucker. The fire came from three directions. The only way still open to flee was toward the harbor.

    I ran into the night, straight into the inferno.

    Straight into hell…

    

    

    

    The dark sidewalks steamed in the heat. Even with the washcloth pressed to my face, sweat poured down my forehead and into my eyes. My lungs felt like they were burning. I tried to keep from coughing so 1 wouldn't give my location away. It was hard to see clearly. The air was thick with smoke and my stinging eyes watered. To make matters worse, I heard screams and gunshots everywhere, but couldn't see where they were coming from. All around me, the inferno crackled and roared.

    I'd only gone about a half block when I encountered the first zombie, an old woman dressed in a soiled nightgown. I smelled her before I saw her, and figured that if her stench was stronger than the smoke, she must be close indeed. I had time to hide behind a green garbage Dumpster before she lumbered out of the haze. Her wig was missing. Her bald scalp looked like a peeling onion, and her varicose veins had burst right through her skin. The corpse's lips were shredded, hanging from her face in gray-white strips. I let the dead woman wander by. She moved in silence. The only sound was the buzzing flies inside of her.

    When the coast was clear, I continued on my way. Flames flickered in the night. I didn't see anyone else on the street. Either the mass exodus of survivors had gone another way, or the fires had trapped them, or they'd ended up as dinner for the dead. I moved cautiously, but quickly, too. Stayed mindful of what was behind me. Eventually, the smoke grew less thick. I passed by the burned-out shell of a car. A family of four had cooked inside the vehicle. They were just blackened shapes now, two adult-sized and two child-sized-a zombie's well-done Happy Meal. I wondered how it had happened. Was that horrible, agonizing death by fire preferable to facing whatever had trapped them inside? And what had burned them and their car? It couldn't have been the current inferno. The flames hadn't reached this street yet.

    Eventually, I got far enough away from the fires to drop my washcloth. The smoke cleared and visibility improved. I immediately wished that it hadn't. More wrecked and abandoned automobiles choked the street and the bloodstained pavement was littered with body parts: severed heads, organs, and scraps of human meat. I recognized one of the heads. It was the guy who'd owned the liquor store around the corner. He was still functioning, despite the fact that he no longer had a body. His eyes focused on me, and his pale tongue slid across his dry, cracked lips. I tried kicking him across the street, just like Alan had done earlier that night, but his teeth clamped down on the toe of my boot. He didn't break the leather, but held firm just the same. I hopped around on one foot, trying to shake him off. His head came loose and soared through the air, shattering a storefront window. His teeth lay scattered on the pavement. They crunched beneath my heels as I walked on. It made me long for the days when the only thing littering the sidewalks in my hood was empty crack vials.

    I passed by a Catholic church-a gothic-looking building with a cross-topped steeple and bell. Several of the stained glass windows were broken and neon red spray paint covered the front doors. The graffiti said god is dead. Across the street was a pawn shop. Our neighborhood had plenty of pawn shops and liquor stores and check cashing places, but not many banks or factories. In truth, I was happy to see the liquor stores burn. They were blight. Cautiously, I peeked inside the pawn shop, hoping there were some weapons left, but the looters had picked it clean. The only things left were a few musical instruments, an old video game system, and a severed hand lying on the floor. Mopping sweat from my forehead, I continued along past a newsstand, another liquor store, and a row of houses. A bloodstained flyer advertising the Fourth Annual East Baltimore Black Singles Weekend fluttered by in the hot breeze. The rear end of a car stuck out of a barber shop. A pizza joint stood open to the elements, ransacked of everything, even the tables and fixtures. My stomach rumbled. Despite everything, despite the danger and the stench in the air and the body parts in the streets, I was hungry.

    Shuffling footsteps caught my attention, followed by a low moan. Then came the stench. I ducked into a doorway and waited. Three zombies stumbled out of an alley. I could smell the rot wafting off of them, even from the other side of the street. I held my breath, waiting for them to pass and praying they wouldn't see me. My prayer went unanswered. The graffiti on the church doors had been right. God was dead now. Just like everyone else. God was a zombie and these were his children.

    He must have smiled upon them.

    They saw me, lurched toward the doorway, and I wondered how it was possible that dead men could still drool.

    The first corpse was in bad shape: both his arms were missing, an ear hung by a thread of cartilage, and one empty eye socket festered with maggots. His face was expressionless. He showed no emotion, just blank hunger. His two companions followed close behind him; a teenage girl who barely looked dead, and a middle-aged man whose wrists were cut downward rather than across. He'd wanted to make sure he did it right. Too bad it hadn't kept him from coming back. The bite mark on his forearm, right in the middle of the cut, was proof enough of that. I wondered if he'd been bitten first and committed suicide in some effort to stop the infection or had cut himself before the zombie attack. It didn't matter. Either way, he was back now. Death was not the end.

    "Damn, you guys stink."

    If they understood me, they gave no indication. I tried to laugh, but my mouth was dry. It sounded more like a frightened whimper.

    They were slow and stupid enough that I could easily get away from them. Just slip out from the doorway and run around them, making sure to keep a wide berth. But before I could do that, more creatures wandered into the street. None of them carried weapons or showed the slightest bit of cunning or tactical ability. If they had, I'd have been dead. One clutched a cell phone in its hand. When I took a closer look, I realized its arm had been burned somehow, and the phone had melded with its skin. Melted flesh stuck to the plastic like taffy left out in the sun.

    Taking a deep breath, I raised the pistol and shot the first zombie-the one with the eye socket full of worms-in the throat. Blood, flesh, and maggots spun through the air. I'd been aiming for his head. That left me with one bullet, and the fucker was still coming. He staggered a few more steps, almost close enough to touch. His head tilted to one side because of the damage I'd done to his neck. It didn't matter. Cursing, I darted from the door and ran the gauntlet. The creature reached for me as I sped by him, his thick fingers clawing at my shirt. Fabric tore. I shook him off and danced away from his friends while he stuffed the torn piece of my shirt in his mouth. The girl spun and tripped over her own feet. The dead man with the cut wrists moaned unintelligibly, and then fell overtop her. The two corpses sprawled in the road.