LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (5 page)

This has been a shit idea. I realize it as I make my way through the growing dusk, my feet moving toward the city. I slip the two cans into my pack and keep moving, not wasting any time in trying to open them. I have only taken a few seconds to read that one can is tomato sauce and the other is kidney beans. I stay to the shadows and lurk through the alleys of the city until I find an old looking Catholic church whose spire has toppled over after a fire and is scattered across the dirt lawn in a crumbled line. It has taken on a sudden dilapidated state and looks decrepit enough for me to assume that no one has set up camp inside of it. I climb through a hole in the wall and arrange my pack and meager supplies behind the altar and carve my way into the can of tomato sauce with my knife and drink it as I look out the hole in the roof at the stars twinkling in the sky between the lazy clouds and swirling dust. There are fewer now than I remember. You would think with all the lights out there would be more, but no, the dust and smoke in the air obscures even the heavens. Earth has gone dark even from the cosmos.

My life has become a hunt at every turn, being stalked by those who have no clue that they’re my hunters. I can trust no one. I don’t know how I’m going to get to Florida anymore, all I know is that I must get there. I have hope that there are others out there like myself—people who just want to survive with those they love. I fear everything. If I am to run into people like myself out there, will I even recognize them? How can people come together or even meet if everyone is as afraid as I am? There must be others like me, but I doubt I’ll be brave enough when the time comes to reach out to them as a lingering member of humanity.

I can no longer pick up the DJ. I listen to the radio through headphones as I watch the sun come up through a haze of gray and brown. Either he’s dead or he’s just out of range. The Preacher is still talking about God and how damnations has sorted us out. I can’t help but wonder where exactly he is in Detroit. Part of me wants to find him and to shake his hand. Another part of me can’t help but question how an old pastor was staying alive, and my mind immediately hunts down sinister conclusions that I hate myself for finding. Port Huron still comes in, but he doesn’t talk as much anymore. I think information is becoming harder and harder to come across. He spoke of a large band of militarized people he called an army making its way through his area, pillaging as they went. He said they were traveling down 94, which meant that they were heading straight for Detroit. Fear grips my mind once more at the declaration. I can’t help but feel fear when I see real, tangible dangers around every corner. I’m literally in a meat grinder with a giant boulder rolling down the metaphorical hill straight for me. I need to hurry. I need to get out of Detroit before they arrive. Nothing good can come of them ousting those who live here.

Between me and that army, I imagine, is a small battalion of well-armed survivors who will no doubt fight for their lives to stop whatever sort of horde is headed this direction. I have no doubt that I can count on them to put up a fight while I make a run for it with the rest of the fearful and wandering. But if there are as many people heading in my direction as Port Huron led onto, then I am going to need to move quickly. My body still aches, but I need to get up and start moving again.

I check the bandage over the gash on my cheek and grimace at the sight of it. It sends shivers of terror running down my back as I hold it in my hand. It’s brown and yellow. I reach up and investigate it with my dirty finger and wince at the bolts of agony that ripple through and across my damaged face. The flesh around the gash is puffy and swollen and I immediately know that it is infected. Knowing I have to try and clean it again, I find the bathrooms and can’t budge the men’s door. I wonder why I am so adamant to adhere to social norms, and kick through the women’s bathroom door. I prop the door open with my bag and luckily there is enough light for me to see the wound. I immediately wash it with one of my bottles of water, gritting my teeth against the pain and begin squeezing it to clear away the puss. I gag at the sight of the yellow mucus and blood in the discharge and quickly fight the dizzy spell that comes over me with a flood of nausea and pain. The smell of the wound, so near to my nose, makes me throw up what little I had in my stomach. Wiping my lips, I set to work once more. Either I am getting used to the pain or I am making progress. Perhaps my body is telling me that it is adjusting, or maybe I’m just becoming numb. Either way I clean the wound and bandage it again, praying that it gets better soon.

I return to the altar and try opening the can of kidney beans. I try wedging my knife into the top of the can and feel a tense vibration before the handle and blade snap apart. Cheap piece of shit. I look at the beans through a wave of dizziness and then grin at the altar’s pointed corners. Without thinking, I grip the can and smash it as hard as I can against the pointed corner. It begins to leak and with a smile I pry it open with the stump that remains of the knife before hurling it across the room. I am sweating a lot and know that I have a fever. I am going to need a lot of water, and something citrus won’t hurt either. I had passed a handful of DVS pharmacies on my way into the city and debate the merits of going back to one and trying to find some supplies. But then again, every other place appears to have been picked through, what would make them any different? Looting would have been more prevalent here in the city. Thousands—millions—had flocked to metro hubs like Detroit to try and find some structure or society to save them. Already I have found bullet holes and shell casings everywhere. I am just going to need to make it through the city and pray that I find something on the road out of Detroit.

I point south and start my journey anew. Like a blizzard, the storm put down a fresh layer of powder that makes it easy to see if others have been on the move. The only downside is that others will be able to track me. I have to accept this and keep an eye over my shoulder as I go. Bodies litter the street and hang from windows, strewn about haphazardly. Only the dust and ash hides their horrible faces.

I find tire tracks at a few of the intersections, but I can’t hear a motor running no matter how hard or long I strain. I wind around buildings and through alleys in hopes of avoiding main roads, but it is getting harder and harder as I draw closer and closer to the heart of the city. I can hear gunshots from inside Comerica Park as I pass by, darting from one abandoned car to another. The dead are left where they fell. I have seen corpses by the hundreds. Some are old, desiccated things, while others are fresh and bloated. I’m thankful for the ash, glad they don’t look back at me with lifeless eyes. I can’t help but feel terrified as I skulk through the heart of Detroit. This place was scary before it went to hell. Everywhere are hundreds of broken windows high above me, many of them having scorched walls around them from where smoke escaped from fires past. The earth is reclaiming everything. I know it is only a matter of time before all evidence of people is erased.

At one point I walk through what looks like a war zone. Woodward Avenue for half a mile is nothing but rotting bodies scattered among demolished cars and walls riddled with bullet holes. Brass casings scatter from beneath the ash with my every step. The stench of death hangs heavy over Detroit, but here, it’s the worst. Words cannot describe the horrors of what I see, praying I won’t remember later. There are thousands of bodies, all of them strewn across the streets and inside of the first and second floors of every building. There are tanks rammed into buildings, Hummers flipped over, and helicopters crashed a dozen stories above the street. I see evidence that women, children, and the elderly had been caught in the crossfire and their emaciated bodies remain as evidence amidst the chaos, motionless and haunting. Fat, lazy dogs cling to their packs as they lounge in the shade and watch me pass with apathetic eyes. The broken windows of offices high above are home to thousands of birds that have turned to the rotting carrion below for food. Here, where once they would have starved, the animals have found a thriving source of food. I throw up my beans and what’s left of my tomato sauce during my passage through the heart of the city. Three times I spot others like myself, travelers, each in their own various stages of starvation, staring at the corpses that litter Detroit. The dead are all that inhabit downtown. No sane person would linger long.

I hope to find a gun, but other than heavy machine guns that were mounted and fused to the Hummers and tanks, there is nothing to be had. Hundreds of survivors must have crossed this part of the city to loot whatever hadn’t been scavenged by the victors of this abattoir over the last few weeks. I find another knife strapped to the corpse of someone who was trying very much to look like a soldier, but looked more like some sort of mercenary or gun for hire. I have little pity for him as I collect his blade. There is a bombed out area of West Adams Street where I stumble across a food truck that had been ripped in two by a long silenced blast. I scavenge up seven bottles of water and quickly down two of them before packing the other five into my bag and moving on quietly. I contemplate a bottle of mustard for a moment before opening it, holding it to my mouth and taking a pull. It is disgusting, but I’m not picky anymore.

Leaving the carnage behind doesn’t mean I’m leaving the dead behind. Those who did not die in battle have died of hunger on these streets. Death walks the roads like an old citizen. There are piles of men, women, and children heaped in the intersections, dragged out of buildings and left for the packs of dogs that show me little interest. They watch me with vacant expressions, their tongues hanging out as they pant in the shade of the buildings. Flies are as thick as clouds, swarming over the dead as their maggots wiggle and worm their way through the bodies. I look over the dead with only enough attention to avoid them. It becomes very clear that there is no one living in the heart of Detroit. No one can stand it. There is no food to be found. Everything had been looted during the Panic. I walk freely, avoiding those like me who are on their various pilgrimages. Some are heading west, others are going north. I spot a family of five heading south along alleys and smaller roads while I keep to Michigan Avenue. Eventually they are forced to fall in line behind me. I can hear their voices and keep my hand on my cleaver and rebar staff as I continue walking ahead of them.

When a scream fills the air not far away, instead of curiosity, dread fills my entire being and I bolt for the nearest building. I worm through the buildings, panicking as I place an entire business between me and where I had been when I heard the scream. Panting and gasping for breath, I feel my heartbeat in my festering face as beads of sweat roll down my forehead and cheeks. I no longer care about what might have caused the screams or if I might be able to help. The only thing I care about in that moment is surviving. Avoiding danger is the only weapon I have in my arsenal at the moment. Survival is all that matters. I whisper my children’s names under my breath as I hear another bloodcurdling scream fill the air. A woman is shrieking for help, pleading for anyone in hearing distance to help her. She’s a ways off, so I decide it is time to get moving, before she starts searching for saviors.

After countless detours from traffic jams and collisions, I spend the majority of my afternoon making my way south until I find myself standing on a bridge over the fetid Huron River. I discover an unlocked SUV with tinted windows and crawl inside. Setting up a tiny camp in the back, I drink two more bottles of water and it seems like a gift from the gods. Food, though, would have to wait. I need to find something soon if I had any hope of improving my health. I am left fearful for the gash on my face. I lock the doors and settle into the nest I have assembled for myself. Slowly, I succumb to sleep.

I awake to the sound of a hand hitting the window of my SUV. I stir with such a startle that I don’t have the mind to scream. I look outside and see that the last vestiges of sunlight is sinking away, but there is another light source. To the north, I witness as one of the skyscrapers in Detroit has turned into a biblical pillar of fire and other buildings are following. I watch the starved-looking band of survivors move on from my SUV, unaware that I am even inside. I thank God that they hadn’t discovered me. As they move, I can hear them talking loudly about needing to keep ahead of the others. Without a question, I know exactly what they are talking about. Everyone else inside of the city will be fleeing in every direction they can. With a wall of fire and army of pillagers in the north and the lake to the east I am going to have legions of starving, fanatical survivors heading my direction.

I curse my current string of luck and pack my supplies up, stuffing my sleeping bag into its sack and throwing open the back of the SUV before taking to the street. I am amazed at how quickly the fire is spreading, and between the haze from just waking up and the fatigue from my wounds, I am even more surprised I am capable of fleeing at all. I grip my rebar staff tightly and keep moving, looking back to see the extent of the damage. The flames reflect off the underbellies of the clouds of smoke that are rolling up into the sky. Another of the skyscrapers has caught fire and is rapidly being consumed. I overtake the gaunt, starving pack that had awakened me though am careful to keep obstacles between us. I see their cheekbones sticking out like blades from their faces and their emaciated cheeks and sunken eye sockets. They stare at me with bitter envy.

“Keeping fed?” one asks in a bitter, dangerous voice.

I don’t answer, keeping my head down as I try my best to pick up the pace. Slipping one of my headphones into my ear, I wind the crank on my radio and listen desperately for the Preacher. When I finally catch his transmission, he is reporting that Warren has deteriorated into a war zone at the moment and that nothing but chaos remains in the heart of Detroit. Looters and fleeing survivors ignited the fires in midtown that are now threatening to consume the entire city. Hunters had taken to the streets and once more, I hear the ominous word that chill my blood.

“Be safe, folks,” the Preacher says in his wise, sage voice. “Zombies have come out to feed. Protect your loved ones and may God be with you.”

God? God had left Detroit long ago. I can’t help but think with bitter hatred that God had left the entire damned planet behind. Hell, hadn’t he been talking about that for the past month? Salvation was our only hope. Repent! That sort of shit had been filling the airwaves since the whole thing went down.

I watch Detroit burn as I make passage through the night. I can hear screams in the distance and on the breeze when it picks up. I keep my head down and avoid those around me who had caught on as well. We would exchange glances and nods, but that is it. Each of us has our hands on our various weapons, just waiting for the others to draw. But surprisingly, no one draws. In the end, it always comes down to survival. As the morning hours whittle on, I begin to see less and less of those who are fleeing Detroit. It’s sad to think that I am in better shape than they. It is more sad that, injured and sick, I am still able to move faster than those I do my best to avoid.

I know in my gut that when the sun comes up, it will be the same game that we have been playing all along. Once more, I’ll be forced to take refuge and try my best to hide from sneaks and killers in the light of day. This is just a moment of rest from all of that. For these few hours, we have all been on the same level. We all see Detroit as a reminder in the distance. I watch the whole damned thing burn. By dawn, half the skyline is missing.