I hate them. In a very real and deeply personal sense, I hate them.

Which gave me a strange sort of cognitive dissonance; they didn’t hate me, nor fear me, nor care for me. I suppose the undead didn’t feel much of anything anymore. Except, of course, for an unfathomable desire to consume.

Me and Ella were among the few that stayed in Fairview when all hell broke loose. The rest sought out refuge up North, at the Army base. Idiots brought the zombies, we called them “Zed”, with ‘em, both as carriers, if they were previously bitten, and stalked as prey as they made their trek. The Military bases were some of the first to fall- from within. I avoided the North, now. More and more there were areas to avoid, like an ever-tightening noose. The rich suburban areas were hit pretty hard, too. The rich homes, they were built for aesthetics, and they looked damn nice, too. But their security relied on law and order- police and private security, alarms and other things that are useless now. The inner cities still have some holdouts here and there. Security that was made for the bad parts of town worked pretty well for Zed, and there seemed to be enough guns to keep the streets pretty well clear. They don’t take to well to scavengers, though, so I stayed away from there, too.

So I was left scavenging in the outlands- the areas long since picked clean by Zed, once they moved on to more fertile hunting grounds.

A half-day’s hike brought me to the hills overlooking Ashton. If it weren’t for the universal aura of fear and the smell of death (which, admittedly, I had begun to get used to), this would have been considered a nice day. A few shockingly white clouds stood in stark contrast against a deep blue sky that seemed to go on forever. The leaves were changing this time of year, a beautiful tableau of colors made all the more calming by the lack of wind. I liked these still days; I didn’t have to worry about my scent being carried by the wind.

I’ve learned patience, over the last several months. I’ve learned that walking into an unfamiliar area was best left to the suicidal types. Zed rarely travelled alone, instead staying in packs like feral dogs. When one caught your scent, or however it was that they hunted, the whole lot would be upon you. So, patience.

In the tree line, I settled in; deep within myself, waiting. I think the binos used to be military, I found ‘em in a jeep a few weeks back, and the occupants didn’t seem to need them anymore. What was left of them, at least. I watched, sensitive for any movement in the streets below. Watched every window for movement, every corner for the now-familiar shuffle of a ghoul. Only saw one this time, some poor bastard probably got bit and didn’t turn until locking themselves in his second floor bedroom. Since he couldn’t figure out how to work the doorknob, and couldn’t get lucky and fall through the barred windows, he could only stage a slow, monotonous vigil, shuffling from one window to another, instinctively heading towards daylight.

After I was satisfied that I was alone, I carefully, slowly, made my way down the hill into the outskirts of Ashton. My rifle was at the ready, muzzle leading the way like a deadly divining rod. My pistol holstered on my left hip (taken from a Zed in full cowboy garb; perhaps living out some lone ranger fantasy before he was bit), my crowbar hanging on my right. The crowbar was a good choice- light and sharp enough to brain a Zed, and useful as a tool. The houses stood like grotesque caricatures of former lives. Nicely trimmed lawns had overgrown, if not died off completely. Most of the windows were boarded up, from the time when the occupants still thought that would be enough. The doors generally told the fate of the inhabitants- they were either kicked in by looters or opportunists, or they were beaten open by the incessant pounding of dozens of undead arms.

Each city has its own story, and you can catch a glimpse of it in the remaining newspapers. Here, in Ashton, ‘The Plain Talk’ announced in bold print, “CDC CONFIRMS ‘SOLANUM’ VIRUS CONTAINED” with more exclamation points than seemed convincing. They might have believed it, too, until it was too late to run. I carefully made my way from one house to the next, watching the position of the sun in the sky. For reasons beyond me, the undead seemed to hunt just as well in the night as in the day, which was something that I just couldn’t match. So to take that advantage from them, I always tried to get back home before dark. I was a little far out, today, so I might not make it, but the further that you got from major cities, the safer it was. Never safe, but safer, at least.

By the time I made it back to the tree line, the sun had descended noticeably, and my shadow had grown a little longer. No clue what time it was, but all that really mattered any more was “light” or “dark”. The wind had picked up slightly, and began to rustle the trees; meant that it would be harder to hear footsteps, and I’d have to watch downwind, in case my scent carried. I didn’t know how well their sense of smell was, but I wasn’t willing to find out. I shouldered my pack, and cracked open some of the trail mix that I had brought with me. Not a bad day, although the houses had been picked pretty clean. Clearly I wasn’t the only one working out of the area. Not a bad haul, though. Found myself a bootlegged copy of some BB King concert from a decade or so back, and I was able to salvage some good nails from the windows. I also found a half-used jar of hair grease. That may seem like a luxury item, but Ella still refuses to cut her hair (“I’m a woman, damn it, and I’m going to look like one, zombies of no”) so I insist that she at least keep it greased if she goes out, so it can’t be grabbed as readily. God forbid.

As always, I took the long way around, always wary of the risk of leading Zed home. The moon was full and rising directly to my front as I crested the last hill and Fairview unfolded below. Difficult to access and small enough to be off most maps, the town looked much as it had several months ago. The only difference being that it was dark and silent, like a postcard, and was left with only a pair of occupants. I was always glad to see it, despite its eerie calm. At least it was home.

At a hundred yards out, I flashed my maglight twice, the red filter in place so as not to ruin my night vision. I knew she was watching, and would be waiting for the signal. At fifty yards, I did it again and waited for hers in return. Good. I wasn’t bit, nor followed, she wasn’t overrun. As close to a good day as you can get, anymore.

I knew where each tripflare was placed, and the path to avoid the claymore lines. I knew the pattern of the tiger pits and the ensnaring concertina wire. By the time I reached the ladder, lowered from the balcony by Ella, I was exhausted. I reeked of sweat and old dust. But I was home; with my Ella, in the blinding moonlight, I was home. We embraced, overjoyed as always to see each other alive, something that we never now took for granted, and descended into the stronghold below.

Our home was once rather beautiful. A tall, ornate Victorian that had been in my family for generations. The home, as a seeming reflection of us, had transformed into a perverse version of its former self. The once beautiful stained glass windows, of which Ella was so fond, had been bricked over and secured with scavenged iron rods. Our small pool, which I had so carefully maintained, had been converted into a small manmade pond with a few live fish. I hope they’ll breed. But, tonight, there was me and Ella, and nothing else mattered.

It was a few days before I needed to go out again to resupply. Ella silently watched me prepare for the journey. Saying nothing, but feeling everything. I kissed her, our only goodbye. Neither of us would actually ever say the words, but it always hung heavy in the air between us. Only after I was certain that we were not being observed, I lowered the ladder and descended back into the nightmare-scape that had become our reality.

I went back to Ashton, and repeated the same procedure as the last time. Watching, waiting, taking, leaving. The second-floor zombie was gone, this time, and I didn’t want to think about it. Dead or escaped, maybe. As I made my way back to Fairview, using a different path than the way I came I checked myself again for bite marks. It was close this time. I had ventured a little bit further into the center of Ashton than I had before, driven by the search for food. I guess that’s something me and Zed have in common, I thought ryely. But, as in nature, when two different species are driven into the same area by the basic need to feed, conflicts will happen.

It was while I was halfway through a window that I felt the weight of the dead hands on my boot. Maybe I had made too much noise prying the boards off the window and attracted her. Maybe I let my guard down; momentarily distracted by the stench of death once I looked inside, coupled with the sight of the former occupant, looking serine in his easy chair, save for the single dried gunshot wound to the temple. Maybe he saved me some ammunition, I had thought.

But my initial instinct to vomit was cut short by the body-clenching fear of a nightmare realized. Already halfway in the window, and with little leverage, this Zed had the advantage on me when she grabbed my ankle. Whipping my head around, I drove the heel of my free boot directly into the jaw of what was probably, at one time, a very sweet old lady. Her entire lower jaw came off with a sickening snap, sending bone fragments flying in all directions. Her head snapped back, bringing her to the ground in a move that was almost acrobatic and I followed the momentum of my kick, freeing my crowbar on the way down. I drove the sharp end directly into her skull. Her loose tongue flapped around for a moment like a dying fish, before her eyes rolled back into her head and she was still.

Shaken, but alive, I finished checking the home. Bastard didn’t save me any ammo.

I approached Fairview, the same still serenity that I always found in my home. At a hundred yards out, I double flashed my red-filtered maglight. Fifty yards out, I did it again, and waited for hers in return.

The signal didn’t come.

Maybe she wasn’t watching. Maybe she had fallen asleep. A thousand possibilities ran through my mind as a clumsily ran towards the house. All possibilities… except for the one. I was barely aware of the trap and weapon locations, passing through them more by instinct than any recollection. I noticed, around the back, the concertina wire had been dragged closer to the home, the distinct smell of expended tripflares hung low in the air. Corpses, and parts of corpses, littered the lawn and filled the pond.

Ella.

My eyes followed the carnage to the rear door. Bricked over, fortified, locked- it hadn’t been enough to hold off the ravenous horde that had come here. I believed then that nowhere could. At first, I thought the door was missing in its entirety, but as I squinted through the doorway, I could see that it had been carried, or knocked, several feet into the dark interior. I entered cautiously, my maglight casting a dull red sheen, my pistol drawn at the ready. I was panicked. I was scared. I was angry. I was possibly culpable. Did I cause this? Did I lead them here?

Ella had clearly fought brutally. The slight natural light steaming through the doorway revealed no less than a dozen Zed crumpled on the floor like discarded rags. I swept each room in a desperate search for my Ella. Everywhere that my light illuminated, there seemed to be another one that had died a second death. Near the stairwell, I skirted a surviving ghoul, crawling desperately in my direction, its spinal column snapped, maybe. I didn’t care, until I found her.

She was at the top of the stairs. Her delicate hand was still wrapped around the trench knife, which was buried in the skull case of one of the ghouls. At least a dozen had fallen around her, a particularly fat one had his hand entangled in her long, beautiful hair, his fingers still twitching in his re-death throes.  With a creeping horror, I saw the fresh pink bite on her shoulder.

Lazily, slowly, her eyes focused on me. Her mouth strained to form the simple words. “They came”, she said simply, as if it weren’t evident. “I know”, I said, “You’re going to be okay”, as if it were true.

“No.” she struggled with the words. “Remember, you promised”.

I nodded. I kissed her. “Goodbye”, I said, for the first time in months, as her eyes closed, and I wept. I held her, the two of us alone in a sea of death, until she passed.

I knew, I had seen it happen, that I had a few short hours until she turned into one of the cursed creatures. It seemed perverse and wrong that it should happen to her, that underneath her beauty would be just another hungry consuming being. I promised. I pressed my pistol to her temple, I closed my eyes.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.

I slept where I was, that night, the ghoul downstairs still scraping on the hardwood floor. When I awoke, minutes or hours later, I couldn’t tell, Ella was cold and still, her skin beginning to turn the tell-tale shade of grey, her forehead beginning to sweat. She was turning. As if it would help, I brained the crawler downstairs with my boot. Again and again, until only a dark stain remained. I had resolve now. I gingerly carried my wife into our bedroom, and laid her lovingly on our bed. Maybe she wouldn’t need it, but I fluffed her pillow and pulled the blankets to her chin. The light from the reinforced skylight accented her lovely face. She was sweating more, now, her jaw was starting to clench as she sensed I was near. I didn’t have much time. I kissed her one last time, looking back as I closed the door. It took a while, but I secured the door in such a way that it would stand against one… of them… indefinitely. Here is where she would stay.

The rest of the day was busy. I pulled the Z’s into what was once the rec center. That done, I lit it ablaze, taking a sort of pleasure in knowing that the one that bit her would be melting, wishing he or she, it, would feel it.

As I came back into the house, I heard Ella shuffling upstairs. I approached the door to our bedroom. “You awake, dear?” Maybe I was losing my mind. How could you tell in these times? She began to pound on the door. I knew deep down that my voice represented nothing more than food to her now, but it was a strange comfort to know she was moving around, at least.

From the crawlspace above the bedroom, I began slowly carving out a decent sized hole in the ceiling. As I nearly completed the last corner, the square snapped off and tumbled into the room below. I saw that it bounced off her face and onto the floor, as she had been looking up, still, looking for this potential meal. She didn’t seem to notice. Later, I would rig up a locking door, but it would suffice for now. It was too high for her to reach, and she now lacked the faculties to create a crude ladder, or the coordination to jump.

I left again, the home secured, the ladder now hidden where I could retrieve it on my own.  I needed supplies, and I realized, with an inevitable horror, that she needed to feed. Her moans and pounding had increased over time, and I couldn’t bear to hear her in such a state.

The trip took much longer than before, because I had a different purpose for this expedition. Through the underbrush and on animal trails, I pulled the thin wooden cart full of attractive supplies. I had included a few dead batteries, a medical textbook, and some tic-tacs in a prescription bottle.  I wasn’t as concerned about observing the city; I suppose I had stopped caring, so I entered the outskirts just as the sun was starting to peek over the mountaintops. I shivered, slightly, with the unexpected warmth of the sunrise as the rusted wheels echoed off the artificial canyon walls.

No one sane would be in the city this early, without sufficient time to scout the region, so I had the streets to myself. At least, I did as far as the living was concerned. I actually wanted to find a ghoul, so I wasn’t too worried about the noise. I was lucky, after a few minutes, I found my old friend from the second story window. His clothes were still intact, and he still had all of his limbs. He was probably quite the ladies man in his day, about my height with a large gold-colored medallion still draped over his exposed chest. Perfect.

I let him pursue me to a street corner which had a good visibility from all angles. I waited, still and patient as he shuffled directly towards me, his cold dead eyes fixed on me, his unearthly moan demonstrating his hunger. My crowbar flashed as he grew closer, a direct hit to the temple. He spun completely around, one eye hanging loose by a slimy thread. Perhaps harder than I meant to, but it wasn’t worth the risk to do otherwise.

I pulled the cart next to ladies man’s prone form, and, with a groan, overturned it next to him, spilling the contents. From a very short distance, he looked very much like some poor soul that was caught unaware, and left his goods with his body. It seemed perfect down to each detail. Satisfied, I retreated to my vantage point, a few floors up in an empty office building and began the waiting.

I knew, from my previous visits, that I wasn’t the only one coming through this area, and it only took a few hours to see that I was right. I saw a man, maybe in his late forties, through my binos as we cautiously picked his way through overturned cars and downed construction. He avoided the car windows, he favored the middle of the street where he had room to maneuver; he had clearly been doing this for some time. He cautiously approached the overturned cart and began greedily filling his satchel.

I watched him do this from the cold comfort of my old rifle’s iron sites. As I lined up my shot, a solid, sympathetic headshot, he met my gaze. I looked at the man. He looked at me. We shared much in that time, whether seconds, minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell, and the question hung unspoken in the air.

I squeezed the trigger.

His head jerked back, painting the wall behind him. I had forgotten how shockingly red human blood was. His body seemed to linger for a moment before collapsing straight down. I made my way to where his body lay and righted the cart, putting the unclaimed supplies back within. I couldn’t bear to look at the man, but I knew I had to. I turned to lift him into the cart, and was struck by his appearance. He seemed to have been, at one time, overweight, but he had grown gaunt, his clothes baggy. I tried to not think about the man, but to see the meat. I failed.

His extra weight made the return trip much longer, but his physical weight was nothing compared to his moral weight. I crested the last of the mountains into Fairview, my once beloved home. Instead of the undisturbed peace, small groups of men moved tactically from building to building, finding little, but ready for anything. I had heard that certain groups were adapting corpse sniffing dogs to the purpose, and they eagerly led each of the teams. I saw them explore the ashes of the former rec center. Most importantly, I saw them at my home, its defenses breached, a single wall burning, releasing a thick suet into the air. I knew. They found her.

I left my wife’s meal; I feared that she wouldn’t be enjoying it tonight, or any other.  I retrieved the satchel from my deceased friend and wiped the freshest of the blood from its exterior. As I made my way down the hill, I had all appearances of just another opportunistic scavenger passing through town, looking for the last artifact of a previous time. The men didn’t seem to notice me, or at least react to my presence, instead focusing on their task at hand.

I passed my former home as they were loading my Ella into the back of an old ford pickup, throwing her into the bed like so much trash. I walked quickly, going nowhere except away, as a tear filled my eye. Now I hate the living, too.

—–

Chris Cox is a computer geek that likes to write down a story once in a while.