LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (15 page)

It’s a courtyard. Not an alley. I look around at the stripped cars raised up on blocks and hanging engine blocks. There are tools scattered everywhere and a dumpster, but I know that they’ll find me. The windows are smashed out of the cars and the dumpster doesn’t have a lid. I rush the rolling garage doors that lead into the shop and grab the handle, trying with all my might to pull the doors up just a foot, just enough room to slide under, but no luck. I can hear the Zombies drawing closer and closer. One of them bangs into a car out on the street, snarling and roaring in frustration. I try the other side of the courtyard, grabbing the metal security door, but it’s locked.

“Damn it!” I growl, looking back at the alleyway that’s just large enough for a single car to pass through. One of the Zombies has already spotted me and is stalking down the alley like a wolf honing in on a wounded rabbit. I desperately look up at the windows on the second story, but they’re too high for me to reach. There’s no time to find something to climb up there with. I’m fucked. I look down at the Zombie. Another clambers over the cars and follows—and then a third… a fourth.

When their number reaches six, I decide to stop counting. Their pack is drawing closer and closer. I grip my knife and grab a mallet off of one of the work benches. The first Zombie charges after releasing its shrill war cry, running with all its might at me, hands outstretched and its black, gaping mouth stretched wide enough to take off half of my face. Its gnarled, blackened fingers reach for me and before the creature can grab me, I smack its right hand with the mallet, shattering the bones there before it plummets into me and I sink my knife into the creature’s intestines. It gasps for breath, the violence gushing out of it in a thick torrent of blood as the monster realizes that it’s dead. I push the creature aside as more of the Zombies file into the courtyard, circling me, conscious of the fact that I am trapped. Throwing their dead brother aside, I try to keep my back to the brick wall, but when the second one charges, they all swarm.

I smack the closest one against the side of the head with the mallet, shattering its face and skull with the blow. It drops dead instantly, but I feel something slam into my side, tearing at my shirt in a frenzy. I stab at it and the creature recoils in time for another to charge me from the front. Swinging my knife I feel something smack into me, driving me forward. Twisting, I notice that the one who smashed into me is now wounded and gripping its hand, shrieking in agony. Ignoring its shattered hand, the creature grabs my shirt and hurls me to the ground. I scream, kicking as another tries to dive on top of me. I can feel the Zombie’s ribs shattering under the force of the kick, but the creature behind me is coming for my head. I scream. It’s all that’s left to do.

Suddenly, my face is covered in something warm and the creature behind me drops dead next to me, his face gazing into mine with an arrow punched through his cheekbone. Two more creatures charge me while the dying Zombies all around me draw the attention of the newcomers. Screams are filling the air and I panic, holding up my knife at the two racing toward me. I’ve lost my mallet, I blindly grope for it, trying to make sense of the arrowhead sticking out of the dead Zombie next to me. The Zombie on the left, charging straight for me, loses its footing and shrieks as I realize that it’s sprouted an aluminum arrow in its throat. The remaining Zombie dives onto me, but I sink the knife into the creature’s throat. With its momentum, the monster’s attack fails as it comes down upon me, my blade pushing through the side of its neck, half severing its head from its body. The creature whimpers at the pain, coughing in agony as I force my weight to rip the blade free, releasing a fountain of blood. Hot blood spills out onto me like thick, gooey syrup. I hurl the dying freak aside and scramble to my feet. Rushing toward the opening in the exit, I pass the multitude of cannibals too preoccupied with eating each other to worry about me. I stop in the alley, turning and seeing someone standing on the rooftop of the building next to the courtyard.

From the silhouette, I wasn’t sure who I was looking at, but part of me pictured Jason, another part of me pictured the Girl in the road whom I had nearly run down with my Jeep. Another part of me saw the watchman back at the grocery store in Detroit, but when my panic recedes for the moment, I see a woman. She is standing atop the roof with her hair blowing in the slight breeze, a compound bow in her hand. As she pulls another arrow from her quiver, I watch her effortlessly pull back the drawstring and release the arrow. It punches through another Zombie that lets out a scream that I fear will bring more down on top of me. She looks at me and I offer her a wave of gratitude. I can see her nod before drawing another arrow.

I don’t stay to watch. I turn back toward the street and head south.

I am alive. I smile a big, unyielding grin as I stumble through the town, watching the buildings become fewer and fewer as I continue my course south. How I survived is beyond me. I have to think that I am somehow blessed. Something is looking out for me, even if God is just a woman with a bow on a rooftop. I thank the good forces that be for seeing me through Bellbrook. I keep stumbling until I find that the houses have all but vanished behind me. I stop inside a well looted gas station and take a rest behind the counter, listening to the wind blow beyond the walls of the store. I take a few sips of water and chuckle to myself.

Who was she? Hell, there was a good person in Bellbrook. That was something that was nearly impossible for me to get through my head. I was a dead man and someone came to my rescue. That was something that didn’t happen in this world. There was a genuine hero out there.

I think about when I was leaving Detroit and when I heard the woman scream for help and I had run for cover, searching for some place to hide before she stopped calling out for help, afraid of what she might draw toward me. I wasn’t a hero. I hadn’t risked my life to save that woman, nor had I risked my life to save anyone. The Kid swirled before my mind’s eye as he pondered the liquor store. I wonder, if she had known what kind of a man she was truly saving, would she have gone through the trouble of saving me? Would she save a coward who hides from those in need? I try to think if I had been in her situation and saw her on the street below, trapping herself like a fool, and being surrounded by foes; would I have taken the time to save her?

No.

It was an easy answer. Time and time again I had proven to be a monster. Though I may think good things and regret what I do, thoughts count for nothing. Thoughts are little more than dust in the wind, blown away without any consequence or meaning. I think back over the people I’ve killed and those I’ve left to die and I wonder how I’m supposed to continue on. I’ve compromised every moral I’ve had in a quest to rescue the two most precious things to me in the world. In the end, is there any going back from this point or am I destined to be a monster for all eternity? The end makes monsters of us all, but that’s not a justification. The end result is just a bunch of fulfilled, resentful demons lurking across the world. I’m not a hero, even if I do find my daughters. My mind may be a weeping, fallen angel, but I am a killer now.

I should go back. I should save what little part of my soul I have left. I should find that woman and I should thank her. I don’t know if I have anything I can give to her, but maybe a bottle of water will do. She should know that I’m grateful for her not just abandoning me to the Zombies. Perhaps those simple acts of kindness should get rewarded. After all, I feel like now, more than ever, there are too few simple acts of kindness. Every kind action in this world is an enormous, life-threatening gesture that could result in sudden death. I should go back.

My mind is plagued by images of Jason’s fiancée. What if that woman on the rooftop had been someone just like her—a victim? Sure, we were all victims of this apocalyptic shitfest, but I mean a real victim. What if the ones she loved had been killed in a misunderstanding, or by hunters, or by scavengers just looking for food, or by a pack of bloodthirsty Zombies? What if she had been through all the horrid nightmares I now fear and came through to the other side still a hero? I should thank her in the very least. Right?

No.

Darkness encroaches upon my mind and I know that I’m living in a fairy tale dream where people are decent and the good guy always wins, but that’s not the case anymore. I am what I am out of necessity. If I saved every dumbass passerby, then I would be dead a thousand times. Detroit would have been my grave, hell, Sterling Heights would have been my grave. Humanity has become a cannibalistic feeding frenzy where the food chain is now dominated by psychopaths and those who are willing to descend into the darkness to become one.

That woman saved my life. Big deal. Good for her. Maybe the dead, soulless God that allowed all of this to happen as he stood by, apathetic to our cries and screams, will give her a pretty set of wings and a nice, shiny halo in the afterlife. Hell seems like a joke now. This is Hell. It’s the inside joke that no one seems to get. I’m down here while Satan prowls the Earth and if I’m wrong, well, I think this is a good training zone for eternal damnation elsewhere. I take a drink of water. No apologies. No regrets. I have done what I have needed to do and I will not be sorry for that. It’s what any father should have done. Would have done. Could do.

I stand up and walk over to the toppled display full of postcards and maps. I find one of the greater United States, slashed with interstates and highways. I pick up another one of Ohio before discarding it for Kentucky. I’m almost out of Ohio and I won’t be missing it. But, before I put the map back, I decide to keep it after all. Spreading it out across the debris-laden counter, I clear a spot and pick up a Sharpie off the floor. I make an X and write ‘JASON’ next to it before folding it up and sticking it in my bag. When I’m done, I add the Kentucky and United States map to my pack before stepping outside into the waning darkness of the night. It will be dawn soon and I am headed for open territory.

Cincinnati is much larger than Dayton, so I adjust my course and continue walking, taking in slow, painful breaths. I wish that there was someone with me. God, I wish I wasn’t so alone out here. The one person that I see who is capable of defending herself, and I abandon the thought of even trying to recruit her. There is obvious safety in numbers, very obvious. Even another person at my side could mean the difference of survival in a situation just like the one I found myself in. I look over my shoulder and think about Jason’s fiancée. No, there’s no way that I could recruit her. I mean, what am I even supposed to say to her? “Hi, my name is Charlie. Thanks for saving my ass back there. Want to walk all the way to Florida with me to help make sure my daughters are alive? Oh, sure, there’s nothing in it for you, by the way.” No, there is no way I’m getting anyone to join me. I adjust my backpack and keep walking with my head held high.

It’s not like I’m leaving her handcuffed to a door or anything. She’s clearly capable of protecting herself. She has the skills and the abilities that will keep her going for as long as I do, probably even longer. Her odds of surviving are even better because she’s not moving. She has an entire town at her disposal, places to know, to forage, to hunt. She would be fine. I know that there are probably plenty of supplies in Dayton to keep her alive.
She’ll be fine
, I tell myself. She’ll be just fine without me and my dangerous quest getting her in hazardous situations. Eventually, I lose track of the road and start walking across a vast emptiness. The darkness of the predawn hours melts perfectly into the darkness of the landscape ahead.

Bellbrook had been a mistake. I see that now. Hunger is something that I’m adapting to. Eventually I hope that I can keep going longer on less. My stomach has to be shrinking to almost nothing by now. I can’t imagine that there’s much left of it by this point and I hope the tuna will keep me going for a few days. How much food do I need to eat a day to survive? I know that I need carbs for energy, but that’s nowhere to be found. I dream of finding something to eat, a can of beans or something, but no luck as of yet. I’m just grateful that I’m once more in the rural wasteland and away from the towns. Cincinnati is probably a day ahead of me, so I keep walking south-east. I’m afraid of running into a full-sized city.

I can’t keep detouring into towns and cities. I lose too much time when I take journeys into those haunted and horrid places. Every corner reeks of death and I’m in no way equipped to handle them. I’m sure that if moving wasn’t a priority, I could carve out a nice piece of the world for myself, but I don’t have that luxury. As I walk, I pull out my map of the United States and look at the Ohio/Kentucky border. Once I make it past Cincinnati, I figure that I can head southwest until I hit the 75 again and follow it south until I come to Lexington. Lexington will be the next real big town that I have to deal with. After that, I’ll follow the 75, dodging towns wherever they might pop up in favor of the rural lands. If I don’t find food, I’ll search farmhouses for it, scavenge what I can as I go. But the 75 is my Yellow Brick Road. I can follow that all the way to Atlanta and then down into Florida. I fold up the map and stuff it back in my backpack as the sun peeks over the horizon and floods the world with bright, golden light. It’s a shame that the only thing to see is nothing but the sprawling, hopeless expanse of tan, gray, and brown.

I notice that I’m seeing more trees here than I’ve seen previously, or at least what’s left of them. Most of them have been burned to pointed, blackened spikes jutting out of the ground that I walk past with a curious interest. I don’t know how all of these patches of trees have been incinerated, but it’s a shame. I remember the trees outside of Jason’s house, how they had been tall, mighty, and ghosts of the trees they had once been. It’s a shame that all of these trees have either toppled over or been burnt to a ruined stump. I crunch through the charred branches, making my way across a dried up canal before entering another field.

There are thick, billowing tails of smoke on the horizon in front of me and to the southwest. I’m cautious of approaching the clouds to the south of me, but I have no real alternative, so I keep walking, wishing that I also had a pair of binoculars. But then again, whenever I seem to acquire stuff, I always lose it. I feel as if I’m destined to sojourn across the country with nothing but the clothes on my back and an old knife. Even with my backpack full of water bottles and maps, I’m afraid that I’m going to get surprised by something else and lose them. I grip my backpack and refuse to let it happen.

After hours, I find myself standing in sight of what’s causing the enormous, roiling clouds of black smoke to the south of me. A large propane tank has exploded and is consuming a very large farmhouse, its barn, and several other small buildings scattered around the property. I’m not sure what to make of it. Propane only ignites when introduced to a flame, so what caused it to explode? I scan the surrounding area, looking for someone who might have caused the explosion, but the fire must have started yesterday sometime, because there isn’t much left. I look at the blaze and then turn my gaze to the southwest where more thick, black plumes of smoke hang in the air motionless, but somehow moving. It must be a town of some sort. I’m tempted to pull out my map of Ohio, but it doesn’t seem worth it. I just want to keep walking.

I’m done with people. I want to just get to Florida without their stupid interference. I don’t want to get meddled in their affairs, get hunted by them, or flee from them. I just want to walk. Part of me just says to head south, but it’s inevitable that I’m going to run into more people before the end. In Ohio, the first two automobiles introduced to the state ended up running into each other for the state’s first car crash. What are the odds? I feel like they’re pretty good nowadays. If there was only one person between me and my girls, I have no doubt that I’d intersect paths with them.

I find a lone tree in the dusty hill overlooking the blazing farm and slowly drop my bag next to the trunk before leaning up against it and slowly sliding down the back of the tree. I watch the consuming flames sway and dance and leap. It’s weird to see orange. I feel like so many colors have vanished from my life. I watch the tongues of fire feeding on the remnants of the house. Part of me smiles as I watch the roof of the farmhouse collapse completely. For a moment, I wonder if there’s any food inside, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s gone now.

I close my eyes and when I open them, it’s night time again.

My ribs are bitching at me, roaring with angry defiance at my activities, chiding me for my recklessness. Every breath is marked with pain and as I lift myself up, I sniff the air and smell the stale smoke that has blown south continually for hours. The glow of the flames is enough to make me remember where I am and gain some perspective through the uncontrollable pain that is racking my body. I know now that I’ve broken a rib, at least one. I pull up my shirt and examine the deep, dark bruises in the orange glow of the fire below me. It doesn’t look good, but it doesn’t look terrible either. If I’m lucky, I’ll take it slow for a few days, skirt Cincinnati without any trouble and by the time I get back to the 75, I’ll be okay. If I’m lucky.

Something to the north catches my eyes and from my perspective atop the hill, I can see a long, sprawling expanse of dusty, parched ground that had once been rich farmland. I’m guessing that I can see probably two miles out, but what captivates my attention is not something on the horizon, it’s much closer, maybe less than a mile off. At first, I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but when I catch another glimpse of it, I know that it’s real.

It’s a pool of light darting across the ground and suddenly there’s a flash, a bright spot on the dark expanse that I recognize. As the pool of light sways back and forth, I know that it’s a flashlight. Part of me is curious, but the majority of my mind is infuriated by the sight of another human being. I’m done with people. I don’t want someone following me and if they’re following me, then they think I’m weak. I reach down and grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I watch the pool of light swinging back and forth to the north as the wanderer keeps moving toward the burning remains of the farmhouse. At one point, the light stops moving and I know that they’re surveying the horizon. I stand with my back to the old, dead tree behind me so that if they have binoculars, there’s no way they’ll spot me. It’s a cloudless night and there’s a waxing moon, so I’m not afraid of them spying me on the hill. I doubt they have binoculars, probably a scope. I begin to suspect that they’re tracking me across the wasteland. If that’s the case, then they’re in for a nasty surprise. The south is hard, concrete-like ground. I suspect that they’re about three-quarters of a mile away, and from atop the hill, I suspect that the burning farmhouse will preoccupy them for a while.