LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (34 page)

There are a pack of people coming around the corner and each of them has the look of something out of a fantasy movie. They walk with worn, dirty boots and pants that are covered with a long white cloth from their shoulders, down to their ankles. There’s a belt tied around their waists and they look like they belong on some medieval battlefield. Their white tabards are painted with a black cross that immediately gives away their allegiance and exactly what role they play in this strange city. I watch them with morbid fascination as they walk. Two of them are walking without shirts on, their bare chests riddled with scars and wounds. Some of them are wearing chains wrapped around their wrists and forearms, the links hanging down to the ground as they walk. All of them are carrying crude spears or clubs made out of metal piping. One is carrying kitchen knives and another has a long piece of metal that looks to have been beaten and sharpened, shaped into a barbaric sword. The shirtless men have no hair on their bodies whatsoever. The rest have long, thick hair hanging over their faces and heads in greasy locks. The men with hair also have long beards that must have been growing for well over a year. The only thing that seems to unite them is the black cross. They have it painted down the center of their faces and the crossing line over their eyes from temple to temple.

“What are they?” Lindsay whispers.

“How should I know?” I hiss back. “Some sort of doomsday cult, maybe?”

The band of cultists approach the dead Zombies, and one who looks to be in charge kneels down and places his hand on the heart of the corpse, bowing his head as if he’s praying for the creature’s damned soul. The others fan out, searching the rooftops and the surrounding buildings for any signs of life or movement. I don’t like the look of this, they almost look defensive, vengeful for the death of the Zombies. The leader moves over to the second dead Zombie and does the same thing, kneeling and praying while the others search with mad, angry eyes for whoever might have done this. I look at Lindsay and she looks at me. We’re in a seriously fucked situation.

“They’re still warm,” the leader says, rising to his feet. “The blood is fresh. They’re nearby.” He looks to his men and there is a certain fiery determination in their eyes. I don’t like the look of it. The leader steps out from the ring of warriors and holds out his arms, as if encouraging someone to embrace him, or to strike him down. “We know you’re near!” the man shouts in a loud, powerful voice. “We know that you are near. You have slain one of God’s creations. You have killed that which you had no right to kill—taken that which is not yours. You have sinned against God and your fellow man. Surrender yourselves, and you will be given a merciful death. If there are many of you, we will only take two and let the others pass. You must answer for your crimes. You must answer for the lives which you have stolen!” The man is roaring in anger. His face is red and he is spitting as he talks. He waits for a reply, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m not getting up or moving. I don’t want them to see or hear us. The man takes a step back into his group. “So be it,” he shouts with a determined voice. “The servants of God will find you. We are legion. We will bring you to justice. God wills it.”

With that, the two shirtless men raise something to their lips and suck in a deep breath before unleashing a blast. I see that they’re holding up cow horns to their lips. These bastards made horns. They made actual fucking horns. I listen to the powerful blast and then a second one shivers my very bones before they lower the horns. Lindsay and I look at each other with worried, terrified faces. We might be able to sneak behind them if they chase their supposed enemies deeper into the city. We might be able to make a run for it and head south. We stay hidden in silence, waiting.

Soon, more horns answer the call.

A lot more horns.

There are what sounds like hundreds of horns answering from all directions. I look at Lindsay and feel my heart sinking. What do they want with us? Why would they hunt down someone for killing one of the Zombies? The horns fill the air, blasting twice before receding, but there are so many that it seems to carry on for minutes. I can feel my heart pounding as I stare out the window at the leader and his pack behind him. They’re waiting for us to move. They’re waiting for fear to get the better of us, smiling triumphantly and nodding with anxious bloodlust. They’re building their courage and boldness, drawing strength from the horns. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

“We need to move,” I whisper to Lindsay.

“There are so many,” she whispers back to me.

“Doesn’t matter,” I reach out and take her hand. “We’re getting out of here.”

I crawl backwards toward the counter, keeping my eye on the doors. With each movement, I’m expecting one of them to see us, to come after us and for the real chase to begin. These aren’t Zombies. These are thinking, murderous people who are probably telling the truth when they say that they’re legion. It takes something powerful to unite people and it has to hold them. Religion has always been one of those precious tools. I don’t doubt that survivors from all around have been coming to Atlanta and being indoctrinated by these psychopaths.

“We are coming for you!” the leader is shouting at us. “We will find you.”

“Good luck, asshole,” Lindsay hisses under her breath.

Slipping behind the counter, through a gap between the wall where the restrooms are and the soda dispenser, Lindsay and I rise to a crouch and begin sneaking through the back room. It’s pitch black, but we can’t risk turning on one of the flashlights. I switch positions with Lindsay, letting her lead since she has an extra hand that she can use while holding mine. I follow her into the thick blackness with only the dim light from the front room to guide us. Slipping by the ovens, we blindly make our way through the small employee nook with their cubbies and past the manager’s office. I only know this because Lindsay is hissing to me everything that she finds. I don’t know how she knows these things, but she does. Eventually, after several minutes of trial and error, she finds the backdoor and slowly, carefully opens it, blinding us with harsh sunlight.

She makes her way out first, immediately readying her bow and nocking an arrow, searching for any signs of trouble. I step out into the sunlight and find that we’re in a narrow alleyway, facing a brick wall of another building behind us. If they come around the building, then we’re trapped like rats. I look at Lindsay and she nods to the south. She’s wise. We need to get out of here as quickly as possible. I follow her, drawing my machete, though I don’t know how much help I’m going to be if we get in a hairy situation. Hell, we’re already in a hairy situation.

Before we make it to the end of the alley, one of the fanatics is walking the street with his spear down, searching for any sign of us. He hasn’t seen us, in fact, he’s looking on the wrong side of the street. Lindsay immediately freezes and draws back her bow. I want to call out to her, to get her to stop, but I’m too late. The man with the spear is starting to turn. We could dive behind a dumpster and hide until he moves on in search of us elsewhere, but Lindsay isn’t waiting. Her survival instinct has kicked in and I’m too slow. The bowstring hums and the arrow flies across the street and pins the man through the neck. He drops almost immediately, his spear clattering on the ground and he gropes the wound in his neck, hissing as he gags, trying to call out for help, but his throat is completely ruined. Lindsay doesn’t hesitate, she draws and nocks another arrow, stepping out into the street and looking for a new target. She finds him and fires before I have a chance to see who it is.

Her arrow takes the second man in the chest, piercing through his ribs and into his lung, collapsing it as he falls backwards, screaming in surprise and agony. I reach Lindsay, who is drawing a third arrow ready to fire it, when I shove her onward toward the alleyway. It would be smart to split up, to draw them away from her, but I can’t do that. I’m too slow and she’s too stubborn. She would hunt them the entire way. Part of me thinks that we might be able to make a stand. Her sharpshooter eye might be enough to put the rest of them down before others descend upon us. She glares at me begrudgingly as she makes for the far side of the street. Reaching down, she rips her arrow from the dying fanatic’s throat before we vanish into the shade and shadows of the alleyway. The screaming man in the street has drawn the attention of the others and soon three long blasts of the horn fills the air. We should have killed him. We should have ended him before he could point out which way we went.

I grab Lindsay’s arm and pull her west at the next intersection and head diagonally toward the southernmost alley, trying to put distance between us. We have to get out of here before they find us. The horn is drawing others in and I don’t know where they’ll be coming from. All I know is that we are running out of time with every passing second. We make our way southwest, weaving into alleyways and trying to avoid time out in the open.

Someone spots us and there are three more long blasts of the horn. They’re hunting us like rabbits. I look back and see one of the hairless, bare-chested fanatics two blocks behind us. Soon there are others that join him, running into the alleyway, screaming for our blood.

“We need to find somewhere to hide—fast,” I say between my staggered breathing. I’m too out of shape, too weak for this. Lindsay looks back at me and sees that I’m holding my side as I run after her.

Coming out on an open street, we see that there is another band to the east with three dogs on chains. I stop for a moment, crouching behind a bus stop, and stare at the dogs that are maybe three blocks away. I can hear them barking and the distant voices of their owners that I can’t make out. I smile to myself. I haven’t seen a dog since Detroit. God, that feels like ages ago. Lindsay crosses the street and makes it safely to the other side, vanishing around the corner of a post office. I cast one more glance down the street at the band of fanatics and their dogs before chasing after her. Rushing around the corner, I watch as she crosses yet another street.

She’s leaving me behind. I start to panic. I’m not going to make it on my own without her, without her bow and her skills. I need her with me. Pushing forward, I keep my hand on my side, trying to keep the growing pain inside of me, as if it might burst out my side and start spilling a trail for them to follow. My ribs have been doing well, but now I can feel the ache in them again. I’m not going to make it. I cross the street after stopping and checking to make sure that there’s no one waiting for me, no spotters or trackers. I make sure to avoid any puddles that might lead them in the direction of me.

Halfway across the street, I realize that I have no idea where Lindsay has disappeared to. I keep running, hoping that I might join up with her, but the reality of the situation seems grim. Most likely, she’s made her own escape. If she’s smart, she will have cut her losses with me and abandoned me to the zealots. Quickly, I make my way between two houses and hear something moving inside. There’s a pounding against the window panes and I turn to look, terrified of what sort of fanatic I might find waiting to skewer me for blasphemy.

What I find is worse. There are dozens of Zombies inside the houses. They’re barricaded inside, banging against the thick window panes, trying to get at me. I flinch as I stare at them. Their faces aren’t caked with the old, hideous gore that all the others have had. They look decent, as if they’ve been taken care of, cleaned even. I step back from the window, turning to run for it, but I begin to realize that they’re in all of the houses. There’s a horrifying realization creeping into my mind. They’re pinning them up, corralling them for when they might need them. What better way to keep people from looting the houses, hiding in them. Mark the houses by locking in Zombies. It’s a twisted form of marking which houses have been cleared, and which ones haven’t. It keeps unwanted guests from squatting inside their domain as well.

Turning from the scene, I run through a back yard and hop the chain link fence, landing in the dusty, rocky lawn of another house. These houses are large, two story homes that were put up probably during the eighties for upper middle class families. They’re nice, but the year of neglect has taken its toll on them. Many of the houses are boarded up with wooden planks, fortified to keep those unwanted souls out. I don’t stop to see if there are any eyes peeking between the boards. I need out of this city. I’m alone again. I don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

I make it through the subdivision of two story houses and find myself in a rundown part of the city. The whole place feels like a forgotten ghetto. There are bars on the windows and heavy metal gates over the doors. Before too long, I have to stop, gripping my ribs and wheezing. God, I’m getting old. I feel like years have passed since I last felt good. Looking around, I sense movement and drop down behind a burnt low rider. I hear the metal door open and a voice hissing at me. I grip my machete and don’t trust it. Whoever is out here, they’re definitely not my friend.

“Charlie!” the voice persists.

Slowly, I peek my head around the car, half certain that I’m paranoid and going insane now. Looking two houses down the street, I see that the metal gate is open and Lindsay is standing in the doorway. She beckons me closer with a wave and I search up and down the streets for any sign of the fanatics. Confident that I’m safe, I sneak out from behind the car and make my way across the street. Hopping the home’s pathetic fence, I run up the broken concrete walkway, climbing the concrete steps and brushing by Lindsay, before stepping into the small house and trying to catch my breath. There’s something musty and gross inside this house and it’s filled the air with its smell.

“I thought you left me,” I wheeze before collapsing into a plastic, dusty chair.

“How could I leave my Charlie?” Lindsay says without any sound of affection or admiration in her voice. I’m certain that she has lost every last positive emotion for me. She’s sweaty and tired-looking, ready to collapse at any minute. I rummage through my pack and hand her one of my bottles of water. She doesn’t have any. I know this because I packed the bags. She has all the extra gear to help make our journey easier. She looks at me and takes the bottle with a grateful nod and greedily drinks. She sighs and lowers the bottle. “There’s no food in the house,” she says.

“Of course not,” I smile and lean back in the chair. My stomach starts cramping as if on cue.

“We’re fucked, Charlie,” she says.

“No we’re not.” I try to retain a measure of optimism.

“We are.” She looks at me with a grim expression that frightens me. “I saw over a hundred of them patrolling the streets on my way here. Do you realize how many there have to be if they can cover that much ground? If they have one or two horns a group, then there have to be hundreds of packs of them out there. And if they’re organized, then that means they’re set up somewhere with their army well outfitted and fed. Fuck, they probably control the entire god damn city.”

She’s right. I don’t even want to begin to think about how seriously screwed we are. There were so many of those psychopaths out there that it will be impossible to navigate all of them without better information. I don’t even have a proper map of the city. How are we supposed to get out of here if there is an army watching for us around every corner? I look at Lindsay and I know that she’s thinking the same thing. If we could find some food and hole up for a while, we might be able to outlast the hunt, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. Right now, we have to keep moving. That’s our only option.

“We’ve been in worse situations,” I tell her.

She looks at me with an unamused expression written across her face. “I left you behind.” She tells me what I already knew. I want to tell her that I don’t care. I know what’s at stake. Life is indispensable now and when something is indispensable and rare, it’s infinitely more precious. I look at her and nod. “Why haven’t you gotten angry about that yet?”

“No point,” I shrug.

“Is that so?” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think you are the most emotionally reclusive man that I have ever met.”

I’m silent for a moment and stare at the empty, bleak house that we’re stuck in. It stinks. The smell is definitely from something that has died and is rotting away. We can’t stay here. It smells like a dead cat in the wall or something. “I’m glad you opened the door,” I say to her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Lindsay answers coldly. “But I have a soft spot for you, Charlie. Something about saving your ass makes me feel good.”

I smile. “Feels good having it saved.”

Feeling that this is the end of our little conversation, I rise and quietly move throughout the house with determined, cautious steps. Those hunters could be anywhere and the zealots all seem to be eager to kill those who disagree with them. There are stains on the white walls where pictures were once hanging, but all of that is gone now. There’s a musty, brown couch in the living room with a small table at the far end. The carpet is stained from ceiling drips. There’s two bedrooms, one of them has two bunk beds shoved into the room with a dresser and a desk. The mattresses are the only things in the room that aren’t furniture. It’s in the second bedroom that I find the source of the smell. There’s a corpse in the bed with a small blanket over her. She’s been dead for a very long time, probably six months. It’s hard to even distinguish what she looked like anymore. I look at her and wonder if she had been injured or sick, taking refuge in the house. Was there anyone with her when she finally died? Or did she die alone like so many of us are destined to?