The Fast and the Dead - Day 6

Down the side of the building he went at a pace that had his conscious brain screaming, but he couldn’t seem to stop or even slow his limbs. Every scuff, scrape and bruise he suffered as he descended using window frames and eaves as handholds warned him off. It’s painful down there, it’s scary down there, YOU DON’T WANT TO BE DOWN THERE, but he couldn’t shut off the part of himself that did.

He was halfway down when he fell, the impact jarring his bad leg again and momentarily knocking the wind out of him. By then the low murmur of the oncoming horde was driving into his mind. He had to get moving. Had to.

He regained his feet but couldn’t immediately spot the runner. The zombies were close enough that he could just barely distinguish individuals from the mass. There weren’t any disruptions in their line that would mark a mass feeding; they couldn’t have gotten whoever it was.

A part of him quailed at the coldness of the reasoning behind that thought; he’d seen scenes like this before on internet news bites. He’d never been this close to it, not in person. Even that morning he’d been too busy running for his life to look at the approaching hordes, to wonder about how to get away. He’d just run, and eventually distance had paid off.

That wasn’t going to work twice, he knew. Not when he was still tired, and injured to boot.

A flash of motion caught the corner of his eye. His head whipped around just in time to see the runner flying past. Male or female, he didn’t have time to see, but slim, certainly, and dark-haired. He could’ve sworn he or she was wearing long pajamas; a real possibility. When they came for you to throw you into the grinder, they didn’t offer you time to get changed. They came, they grabbed you, that’s it.

He grunted with effort as he swung his legs to follow; the additional knock to his leg had stiffened his ankle but good, and it was definitely slowing him down. “Hey!” he called out. “Wait!”

It was a ridiculous request; nobody in their right mind would turn and wait with a hungry pack of zombies behind, but when you have a hungry pack of zombies behind you, you tend not to be in your right mind.

The figure didn’t stop, but did turn her head. Her large eyes widened, the panicked look intensified, and she redoubled her sprint down the street.

Should’ve expected that one, a dry voice in his mind told him. He tried real hard not to think about how close the pack must be, focused on following after her instead, one painful step at a time.

She was making a bee-line down the center of the street, straying from the path only to dodge or jump over debris, and she was making good time; she was pulling far ahead of the pack, and ahead of him as well. The sound of their footsteps pounding the cracked old pavement gave him something to listen to other than the constant low, droning moan from the creatures behind.

They were a block past the coffee shop in the direction he’d originally come from when she broke from the center of the road. She dashed up to the doors of a large old building with windows all round. She flung herself at the door and wrestled with it fruitlessly.

The road seemed to be taking on a life of its own, trying to trip him up and leave him for the horde behind him. Debris shifted under his feet, cables snagged at his ankle, with a particular fondness for the stiff one, and over it all, the moaning never stopped. His only relief came from the distance at which it came from; he was gradually pulling ahead. As long as that stayed true, the road could do what it wanted with his feet.

Ahead, the woman was screaming, a furious sound, and wrenching at the door. Something must’ve given, as it flew open and without hesitation, she vanished inside as if the doorway had eaten her in one gulp.

The Fast and the Dead - Day 5

He turned his attention back to his task. He had to go painfully up another storey on the next building and then down two to the building beyond that, bringing him to the end of the block and facing his inevitable descent to street level.

He looked about for any way to cross without going down, but there was nothing; in years gone by, there could have been power cables he could try to cross, but if they’d existed in this location they were gone now. Worse, he was at the height he’d started at, three storeys up, and this building didn’t look like it featured roof access.

He was doing his careful rounds of street inspections when he realized that for the past few minutes he’d not been hearing the silence he normally heard. He shivered as the low moaning tide broke over him, and he looked up and down the streets, stretching out to see as far as possible.

Movement, out on the street crossing the one he was following. It was coming his way. Shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun let him make out a familiar sight; a single figure, too distant to note any details, running for madly his or her life. Behind the figure, still some distance back, a slow, unevenly moving tide of hunger.

As his eyes soaked in the details, he felt his body go rigid with terror; a few hours was not enough to forget that earlier that very day, that lost, terrified fleeing figure had been himself. Another one thrown into the grinder for sport, he thought. The idea was sharp, hot, painful and horrifying. That was the reason he was here, the reason he was fighting for his life, for escape.

Over a decade ago the first reports had come in; the dead weren’t staying dead. Not all of the dead, of course. Talk shows, blogs, Twitter, Google+, all the major media outlets had buzzed with speculation over the cause, but the original source was always kept murky, elusively out of reach. Mainstream news sources had reported merely widespread incidents of violence, but as it spread faster and faster, with more people dying and then refusing to stay dead, the truth became impossible to hide.

People reacted as they always did when something terrible and frightening is going on. They clustered together. Safety in numbers and all that. The cities became refuges, havens from the craziness outside.

That lasted all of a day. Maybe not even.

They’d underestimated the danger. They’d believed you had to be bitten to turn. People entering the security zones were screened for bites, any bites, human or otherwise since nobody knew whether animals were affected. But people who’d been scratched, they were let in. And they turned.

Less than 24 hours after the security zones were populated, they were all but consumed. People inside turned sometimes within a couple of hours of their injuries; others almost a day later. But those few who turned fast were enough. The plague had spread fast and hard through those concentrations of humanity, and it didn’t matter that security zones hadn’t been completely filled. People were panicky, crowding outside the zones to get in, and so when they realized their danger and tried to get away, they couldn’t do it fast enough.

He’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d been outside the cities, been on the road. He’d heard some of the early reports, had known something was going on, but not how bad it was. He was saved by his music collection, his digital library that meant he hadn’t had to put up with news or commercials. If he’d had the radio on, he might’ve crowded into a city himself, but he hadn’t.

The figure was closer now, enough to get a read on the growing exhaustion of the movement, but still not on any real detail. He found himself moving, good leg swinging over the lip of the roof, his hands taking hold of the edge securely. No no no no nonononono, his brain tried to tell him, but his deeper mind knew what it was like to be that person, couldn’t let that person go it alone, didn’t want to be going it alone himself any more.

The Fast and the Dead - Day 4

Old movies always showed abandoned buildings as virtual deathtraps, rotten and collapsing, debris strewn everywhere. This old coffee joint wasn’t living up to the image, he thought. It was nothing more than dusty. Linoleum stairs climbed their way upward, and if they creaked once or twice, it was possible they had in the years before catastrophe as well.

He’d seen other buildings that did more to live up to the image, to be sure. Open windows, holes in a roof, a missing door; if a place had any way at all for the elements to intrude, they intruded with fierce destructive purpose. There were many buildings in such states now, but there were plenty that had been left relatively good shape, and some of those had escaped further damage for now. The elements would still win, but it would take a lot longer.

Another flight of steps awaited him at the third floor, along with a sign proclaiming roof access. The door awaiting him led outside to the promised roof, from which he could see a good stretch of road in all directions.

The lone zombie had made it mostly through the intersection. A living person would’ve been some distance away by now; it was slowed even more than most zombies by what looked like a broken ankle. He moved from corner to corner of the building, checking up and down each street, moving quietly; there was nothing else in sight. He did see what looked like a rooftop path in roughly the direction he’d been moving in though, and it would carry him away from the zombie limping his way along the other route. It wouldn’t last for long, but he’d feel far less exposed than he would down on the street. He’d be forced to head back down soon enough, but there was no reason not to take advantage of the height and sight lines while he could.

There was no gap between the building he was on and the next, so he simply climbed over a low wall and was on his way. It was the same for several more buildings, then he found himself scaling a drain pipe as he came to a building that was one storey higher than the others.

This building had not fared as well as the coffee shop had. A large hole in the roof showed plenty of ruin within; he tread carefully, not just to avoid falling in but to avoid making noise. He was safe enough while he was up on the roofs, but if there were zombies within the buildings he passed over and they became aware of him, their frustrated moans could summon others. The streets could become unpassable awfully fast.

He saw no movement within, and had to climb up to the roof of the next building as well. He leaned out over the street and looked onward; taller buildings were becoming the norm. He’d covered most of the block though and could still see a lot further down.

The road ran generally downhill toward the lake. He had about another 3 blocks ahead of him before a T intersection cut off the visibility he’d gained, and over those 3 blocks he couldn’t see a single zombie. “It’s about time SOMETHING went right,” he muttered.

The Fast and the Dead - Day 3

Every instinct that told people to be frightened of dead bodies kicked in and screamed at him. As he edged towards the door, nothing happened. The body stayed where it was. There was no movement, no scrabbling of fingers against the floor. It was just a body laying still.

He stepped into the hallway and paused for breath. Quickly finding a stairway that lead up and down, he descended to the first floor. The coffee shop may not have been looted, but it wasn’t spared all damage. It looked like rats and other small animals had been at work. He ignored the counter and headed for the back of the store. Any restaurant needed to have a large cold-room, and that was where he was likely to find what he needed.

The door to the large refrigerated room swung open, though not easily. The hinges were corroding and the floor was a mess with scattered droppings and other bits he didn’t care to examine too closely. Stepping in, he noted the room was about the same temperature as the rest of the building; the power had been off for a long time.

The cold-room had been sealed better than the rest of the place and been spared the ravages of infestation by vermin. He ignored the boxes of napkins and cutlery and such, and searched until he found several boxes of bottled water. Sighing in relief, he drank several down without hesitation, the water feeling cool and refreshing even though he knew perfectly well it was room temperature.

His most pressing need taken care of, he quickly but methodically went through the rest of the stores. There was little he could use; mostly ingredients for making doughnuts and other baked goods. There were packages of sprinkles; he stuffed his pockets with those. They were pretty much pure sugar, but they’d given him energy and something for his stomach to work on if he couldn’t find better.

After about 10 minutes he started feeling antsy again. He’d been in one place far too long. There’d been no sign of movement outside, but he didn’t want to chance becoming trapped. Grabbing a large plastic bag from a box of them, he filled it with more water bottles and cautiously crept out of the cold-room, keeping his eyes on the large barred windows.

No movement on the street he was facing. Keeping low moving slow, he peeked around the counter to view the side with the fenced enclosure, where he’d climbed up to enter the building. He sucked in a breath; on the other side of the street, shambling aimlessly, hair in crazy disarray, clothes ill-fitting and terribly stained, flesh rotting; it looked much like the body upstairs, only this one was up and walking.

Some people shied away from calling them zombies. He’d heard all kinds of terms; ghouls, deadels, rotters, walkers, the living dead, the restless dead, even the living-impaired. He didn’t care what they were called, as long as it was from a distance. He bit his lip.

If he went outside now it would likely spot him. And then it’d start that incessant moaning. If there were others in the area, and he was sure there must be by now, they’d home in on it and he was screwed if he was still anywhere near. On the other hand, it was just the one. They weren’t exactly difficult to outrun once they were in a decayed state like this one.

Other options. The stairway that had brought him down from the second floor had also gone up. He could try the roofs. This wasn’t a great area for roof-hopping but he’d passed beyond the area of real skyscrapers. He might be able to get some additional distance, and a better look at the state of the roads. Decided, he hefted his prize and carefully retreated to the stairwell and began to climb.

The Fast and the Dead - Day 2

He took a deep breath. The air was tinged with filth and corruption, some from the recent troubles, some not yet worn away by time after the days before. The smell of the lake lay under it all, faint this far inland—the lake. Water. They couldn’t swim. Water wouldn’t actually stop them, they could wander as long as they liked across the bottom, but if they couldn’t reach up to the surface, they couldn’t get to you. If he could only get to a boat …

He scanned the streets, doorways, windows and alleys around himself. Still no sign, but it wouldn’t last. He couldn’t sit still for long, not here. Not in the middle of this death trap.

Skin crawling with the feeling of exposure, he trotted down the street. He wanted to run, but his energy was flagging already and he couldn’t afford to burn it all right away. It’d be gone too soon as it was.

Brick and glass facades faced him from either side of the street. Trees still grew in many places, while others had long since been broken down. Old power lines lay lifeless on the streets and walks in places, but he paid them no mind; it’d been years since they carried any charge. Colorful urban graffiti was still visible on many of the old brick walls under newer layers of dirt, soot and in places, blood.

A loud growl came out of nowhere. Whirling around, heart pounding his blood like a drum, he whirled around—but the street was empty. He realized with a pang that he was hungry; very hungry. It had been hours since he’d had anything to eat or drink, and he’d been moving fast for a long time in the heat.

A shop with a painted green brick facade boasted a sign that read ‘Little Nepal Restaurant.’ Like everything else around, it was quiet as the grave, large picture windows dark and barred, the glass intact, the door locked. There’d been nothing edible in there for a long time.

He hurried on, keeping an eye on the signs he passed as he went. Hunger would leave him a little weak and very uncomfortable. Water would have to be found much sooner.

An intersection brought him a promising looking old coffee shop; like the restaurant he’d passed, all the windows were unbroken and one of them, a smallish window higher off the ground, was unbarred. He hoped this meant that the place had gone unlooted. It was just barely possible he might find something of use inside.

The trick would be getting to the window. It looked like it could be part of a second floor to the place. A small fenced off area below the window looked like it could once have been a street patio. The fence was iron, rusted now. Not nearly high enough to provide access to the window. It might offer access to the broken old ‘Coffee Place’ sign above the street level windows. If the sign would hold his weight for just a few seconds, he should be able to reach the window and get in.

He’d have to break the glass first though. A pair of long-empty newspaper vending machines were chained to a rusted no parking sign a few feet from the fence. They were too big and heavy to throw. He was about to try one of the few remaining scattered white plastic chairs within the fenced enclosure when he saw a crumbled area of curb at the corner.

“Perfect,” he muttered to himself, surprised at how dry his throat felt. His tongue was drying too. Hefting a chunk of broken concrete, he reared back and let it fly at the second story window. It sailed through with a loud crash and tinkle that made him wince and cast anxious looks up and down each street; the intersection was a four-way crossing and until just how had been silent.

No reaction. No movement. He almost wished they would show up. He’d spent hours trying to get away from them but now that he had, he couldn’t help feeling like he was in the calm before one hell of a storm.

He relentlessly shoved the thoughts aside and braced a hand against the coffee shop’s stained wall, climbed up onto the low rusty iron fence. He stared up at the sign above him and winced again. It projected out from the wall well enough, and would give him plenty of hand-holds, but it was as old as everything else on these streets. Even when it was new it was never intended to hold a man’s weight. He wasn’t the biggest guy in the world, about 5’8”, 150 lbs, but he was going to have to get off the sign and up and over to the window pretty fast. He was no athlete.

He also didn’t have time to second-guess. Either it would work or it wouldn’t. He shoved those doubts away too.

He balanced himself as well as he could on the very narrow fence, keeping a hand on the wall, and leaped as high as he could. His arms flailed a bit as he tried to catch the sign, scrabbling at the plastic, and then he was down. His leg flared in pain as he landed wrong; he bit off a cry of pain and surprise.

More surprise than pain, thankfully. He looked around quickly; still nothing. A few quick test steps told him he’d be able to walk, though running would be pushing it.

“Wonderful,” he muttered. “Just what I needed.” He looked back up at the sign again. There wasn’t much option really; this was the best prospect he’d seen all day.

He climbed back up again and leaped, a little more awkwardly than before. His hand slammed into the sign, breaking the plastic, but it held. He gripped tight and managed to swing himself up enough to grab the top of the sign with his other hand. His weight was too much for it; he heard it creaking and groaning as the flimsy backing of the sign began to twist and pull.

Hand over hand he made his way across the Coffee portion of the sign to his left; the window was above the big ‘C’. He needed more leverage; he swung his legs to and managed to snag one of them on top of the ‘f’. The groaning protest of the sign got louder; something popped within, but it kept on holding.

He was sweating, making his grip on the plastic sign more difficult; he shot a hand out to grab the window sill and caught it. Squeezing the sill tight, he managed to grab it with his other hand, keeping his injured leg on the sign, his good leg against the wall. Arms groaning in protest, he pulled himself up as though doing a chin-up and groaned. The inside of the sill was covered in broken glass.

His arms were getting dangerously sore, but he took a hand off the sill and punched as much of the broken glass still in the frame inward as he could. He then quickly and carefully brushed the glass off the inner sill; he still managed to get a small cut, ruby blood welling up from the side of his hand. It wasn’t bad. “Won’t be bad until they smell it, anyway,” he muttered as he pulled his way inside. Talking to himself was becoming a habit.

He was in a small office, probably belonged to some manager of the coffee place downstairs. It was musty, smelled like a place that’d been sealed for months. Stale air, and—and there was a corpse laying on its side against the far wall, far past putrid, dessicated with age, most flesh gone, empty eye sockets seeming to stare right at him. He paled and fought the urge to scream, started edging his way to the office door.