Zombies - Encounters with the Hungry Dead Part 52

That wasn't the case, however, with the group before the clinic.

There must have been twenty of them, ma.s.sed solidly before the locked doors. As we drove towards them, I saw their clothes, once prim and starched, now stained with all those fluids they'd long ago feared or detested. One still held up a sign (I realized a few seconds later he had taped it to his wrist as he died) which read Operation SoulSave-Save a Soul for Christ! Several sported the obligatory Abortion Is Murdert-s.h.i.+rts, now tattered and discolored.

Their leader was the Priest. I remembered him from before, when he'd been on all the news programs, spouting his vicious rhetoric while his flock chanted behind him. Of course, he looked different now-somebody had snacked on his trapezius, so his Roman Collar was covered in dried gore and hung askew, and his head (he was also missing a considerable patch of scalp on that same side) canted strangely at an odd angle.

I saw Dale eyeing them and muttering something under his breath. I asked him what it was so I could write it down: Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward. He said it was from the Bible. I was surprised; I didn't know Dale read the Bible.

Tom responded with a quote from one of the more contemporary prophets: I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused. Then he asked Dale what we were going to do. Dale, who was practiced in this, said he'd drive around the building once, which would draw most of them away from the front long enough for us to get in. They wouldn't bother the Jeep when we weren't in it.

Dale headed for the next corner. Tom pulled the.38 and held it, and I remembered.

I was thinking about the time I had to go to a different clinic with my friend Julie. It was before I started you, diary; in fact, I started you about the time Julie disappeared with most of the rest of the world. So I've never written any of this down before.

Julie had gotten pregnant from her boyfriend Sean, who split when she told him. Abortions were legal then (this was a long time ago), but could be costly, and Julie, who was still going to college (as I was), had no money. She went to her parents, but they threw her out of the house. She thought about having the baby and putting it up for adoption, but she had no health insurance, wouldn't be able to afford the actual birth, and regarded overpopulation as the end of the world. This, obviously, was before the deadheads arrived and clarified that issue.

So I'd lent her the money, and agreed to go with her to the clinic. She made the appointment, worried about it so much she didn't sleep the night before, almost backed out twice on the drive there-and all so she could be confronted by the fine Christian citizens of Operation Soul Save.

They had seated themselves on either side of the walkway leading into the clinic. Even though it was in another state and time, they wore the same T-s.h.i.+rts and held the same signs. They were mainly male, or women in clothes so tight they seemed life-threatening. They all had vacuous smiles on their faces, that gave way to cruel snarls of contempt whenever anyone went into or out of the clinic doors.

Julie took one look at them and didn't want to leave the car. I told her we'd be late, and she said it didn't matter.

We'd talked about the morality of abortion already, and had agreed that it was obvious that the unformed, early fetus was only an extension of the mother's body, and as such each woman had the right to make her own decision. I reminded Julie of this as she sat s.h.i.+vering in the car, and she'd said that wasn't why she didn't want to go past them.

She was afraid of them. She said they seemed like a mindless horde, capable of any violence they were directed to commit.

She'd had no idea how right she was.

We drove slowly around one corner. Sure enough, they stumbled after us. Then Dale threw it into fourth, and we screeched the rest of the way around the block.

When we got back to the main entrance, there were only five or six still there, not including one that dragged itself around on two partially-eaten legs. Tom handed me the Uzi, while he took the.38 and cradled the box. Dale opted for a machete (I didn't want to have to see him use it minutes before he operated on me).

We sprinted from car to door. Tom shot two right between the eyes. I raised the Uzi, forgetting its rapid-fire design, and ripped one of them completely apart. I felt my stomach turn over as I saw some stale gray stuff splatter the doors. Dale just kept running, shouldering the last two aside. One rebounded and grabbed his left arm. He whirled and brought the machete down, severing the thing's hand, then kicked the deadhead away. He pried the dead hand from his arm, threw it aside, and told us to cover him while he unlocked the door.

As Dale fiddled with the keys, Tom shot the two Dale had barreled through. Then the.38 jammed. He began to fieldstrip it, and I looked nervously down the street, where the ones we'd tricked were shambling back, led by the gruesome Priest. Suddenly I felt something on my ankle. I looked down to see the legless one had dragged itself up the steps, and was bringing its gaping maw to bear on my lower calf. I freaked out and grabbed the Walther from Dale's holster; I think I was screaming as I fired into the zombie's peeling head. It died and let go, thick brown liquid draining onto its Save a Soul-Close a ClinicT-s.h.i.+rt.

Then Dale had the doors open and we were in.

Later, Tom told me he had to pry the pistol from my fingers while Dale started up the generator and got things ready.

Then before I knew it Dale was there, in gloves and mask, saying he was ready.

I don't remember much of the actual operation, except that I asked Tom to wait outside-and the sound. The horrible sound the whole time we were in there: Them, pounding on the doors, slow heavy thuds, relentless, unmerciful.

Dale was, as I've said before, an excellent doctor, and it was over soon. He made sure I didn't see what he put into the tiny wooden box Tom had carried in, and I didn't ask. The box, which had been beautifully crafted by Rudy V, would be taken back to the Colony and buried there.

There was one thing I had to ask, though, as morbid a though as it was. I had to know if-I had to be sure Dale had-G.o.d, I can't even write it.

But he knew what I was asking, and as he stripped off the gloves he told me I didn't have to worry. None of the ones aborted had ever come back. The rest of us had to be cremated or have the brain destroyed upon death, or we'd resurrect.

How ironic, I thought, that this was how we would finally lay to rest the Great Debate. They weren't human enough to come back. Abortion isn't murder.

Getting out would be harder than getting in, but Dale had it all down. Tom would crawl out a side window, drawing them away from Dale and me. Dale would lock the front door while Tom and I covered him, then we'd all head for the Jeep. I was, of course, still weak, and Tom didn't want to leave my side, but Dale told him it was the safest way, and he'd be sure I was okay. Tom reluctantly agreed.

It went down without mishap. They were slow and easily confused, and by the time they saw two of us on the stoop and one by the Jeep, they didn't know which way to turn. Tom shot a couple who were in our way. Once Dale had the doors locked, he pocketed the keys, took the Uzi from me, and I carried the little coffin as we ran for the Jeep.

Once we were inside, Dale started it up and pulled away. They were already hammering on the sides, clawing the welded cage, drooling a yellowish bile. One wouldn't let go as we drove off, and it got dragged fifty feet before its fingers tore off. Tom actually shouted something at it.

Dale was ready to speed out of town when I asked him to stop the Jeep and go back. He stopped, then both he and Tom turned to stare at me, as open-mouthed as any deadhead. They asked why, and I just handed Tom our box, took the rifle, got out and started walking back.

They ran up on either side of me, Tom saying I was still delirious from the operation, Dale arguing I could start hemorrhaging seriously. I ignored them both as I saw the deadheads at the end of the street staggering forward now.

I had to wipe tears out of my eyes-I didn't even know I was crying-as I raised the rifle and sighted on the first one. I fired, and saw it flung backwards to lie unmoving in the street, truly finally dead. Tom and Dale both tried to take the rifle from me, but I shrugged them off and fired again. Tom argued we were done here, and there was no point in wasting ammo on these f.u.c.kers, but I told him I had to. Then I told him-told them both-why.

After that they left me alone until all the deadheads were gone but one- the Priest. My arms were shaking so bad I almost couldn't hold the gun steady, but he was close-thirty feet away now-and hard to miss. My first shot blew away part of his neck-and whatever was left of the collar-away, but the last one brought him down.

I dropped the gun, and Tom and Dale had to carry me back to the Jeep.

But now I'm at home in bed, and Dale says I'm physically okay. I miss the child I'll never know, a pain which far outweighs the physical discomfort, but Jessie is here, and she hugs me a long time before Tom sends her to bed.

Now I'm smiling as I think of that street, and write this. Because I know that none of the women who come after me will have to endure more than the horror of giving up part of themselves.

29/ Carlton Mellick III Lemon.

Kinives 'n' c.o.c.kroaches.

WE ARE SPIDER-CRAWLING THROUGH the dark places between the walls, like maggots under dead skin. Boney limbs and hooks on our fingertips to help us slither through the tight pathways.

Alyxa and all of her dirty smells ahead of me, her cricket legs creeping the crawls.p.a.ce, greases sc.r.a.ping off of her and coating the walls as she moves, leaving a path for me to follow.

Every time she spreads her legs to move a rotten stench attacks me in the face, makes my eyes water, almost collapsing me from my position.

One of the boys is following behind, Paul I think his name is, not sure. All of the school boys look alike now with their black-painted bodies, bald heads, goggles over their eyes. They don't really speak anymore, driven mindless, inhuman. The boy crawls like a c.o.c.kroach behind me, overlapping my limbs if my pace slows, cutting into my leg flesh when he misses the wall.

Alyxa stops, freezes in a position with her legs apart to brace herself. Her smell sweeps over me and I try not to breathe, even when breathing through my mouth I can taste the thick scent of her filth. She turns to us and opens her lips to release two lemon knives, sharp handmade knives greased with sour acids yellow in color, dropping them into each of her hands. Dirt-crusted teeth and a cat-dry tongue, looks at me deep through my eyes.

"I love you," she whispers, petting my arm with her bare toes.

I continue to hold my breath, my eyes seal themselves shut from the sting of her fumes, she can't see my expressions in the shadows. The c.o.c.kroach boy tugs on my legs behind me.

"Let's go," she says, and continues on.

I open my eyes and follow, rubber kneecaps helping me through the crawl-s.p.a.ce. More cautious now. We're in the dangerous region, where they are most likely to find us. So many have been killed here, so many that were stronger than me, smarter. Alyxa's the only one left worth saving.

We move vertically through the crawls.p.a.ce now, into a hole in an air vent, s.h.i.+fting to the s.p.a.ce over the ceiling of the first story of the facility, beneath the floor of the second story. And pause, balancing ourselves on the framework so that we do not fall through.

My leg slips and clanks into the frame. That was sloppy. Alyxa puts a metal hooknail to my lips, hussshhh, and points down to the vent at our knees.

I nod and slowly pull the vent away, a rush of musty pungent odor surges into the crawls.p.a.ce, even more rancid than Alyxa's dirty smells. I hand the vent to the c.o.c.kroach boy who in turn hands me a wire-rope tied in a noose. The opening leads to a deep blackness. I can't see all the way to the ground. A cloth over my nose as I focus on them.

"There they are," Alyxa whispers, but she doesn't have to say anything. They are right below us, like they were waiting for us. They peel open their decayed leathery lips and release deep hungry moans.

I can only see parts of them in the shadows, their cold faces glowing in the dim moonlight from a half-boarded window somewhere down the hallway. No clue how many there are. Their moans are echoing in such a way that it sounds like hundreds. But those are just echoes. Have to be...

"Lower the rope," Alyxa says, and I slide it into the pool of dark as the c.o.c.kroach boy ties the other end to the metal framework.

"It's just like fis.h.i.+ng," she says.

She knows I've never done this before, that I was lying when I said that I was the fisher on the runs that I used to go on with her brother. Back when there were enough people to spread out the runs evenly, so that everyone only had to go on one run every eight days. As of yesterday, we go every other day.

I wiggle the rope slowly at their heads, waving it at them. Alyxa sighs hard at me, sniff-shaking her head. I'm used to having the c.o.c.kroach boy's job, hiding in the back, in the safe place.

One of them s.n.a.t.c.hes onto my noose, tugs violently at it, tries to pull me down to him. The noose slips tight around its fingers. "Pull," Alyxa screams and I tug the wire-rope, the creature tumbles from its feet and the wire goes limp.

"Did it break?" my words slurred. My nerves feel like ants crawling up my neck.

"No, it slid from his hand." Alyxa fingers my waist like it's a pat on the back.

We reclaim the rope and retie the noose, lowering it back into the pit of living death. The moaning grows louder as more of them enter the hallway, this kind of commotion brings them all out of hiding.

"Hurry up," Alyxa says. "We can't afford to attract any more of them." "You think I don't know that?"

Before she can respond a groan pops out of my lungs, my breath is knocked out of me as one of the creatures s.n.a.t.c.hes the wire-rope and rips it from my grip- "Watch it," Alyxa cries as the rope slashes around at us, the monster below convulsing against the chord, throwing my balance.

I seize the wire-rope and pull, the noose hooking tight around the creature's arm.

"Come on," Alyxa shrieks into my ear. "Pull, pull!"

All three of us reel in the wire, the c.o.c.kroach boy uses the framework as leverage.

"It's a big one!" I say, as if it really is a fish, "Will it fit through the walls?"

Alyxa doesn't answer, concentrating, the lemon knives propped in her mouth.

The creature comes into focus: a very large corpse, white and naked, its skin wrinkled with rot. It growls as we pull it in, swinging at us with its free arm.

Just a few inches away from us, we stop pulling. The boy wraps the excess wire-rope to the frame and Alyxa releases her portion, slipping the lemon knives from her lips.

"Okay," Alyxa sighs, leering down at the living corpse at her feet, a hazy film over its eyes. "Are we ready?"

But before we can respond, the dead man grabs hold of the edge of the opening with its free hand and pulls himself up into the crawls.p.a.ce.

I scream, jerking back away from the zombie, kicking to move, hitting Alyxa in the ankle and she drops one of the knives. I shove myself into the c.o.c.kroach boy who slips from the framework, falls back and drops through the ceiling.

He quietly disappears into the darkness below.

Alyxa retrieves her lemon knife and stabs both of them through the sides of the zombie's head, their tips touching each other in the middle of the dead man's mind.

She pulls his corpse away from me as I lie here, staring at the quiet hole where the c.o.c.kroach boy was situated. He went without a scream or complaint, just dropped into the ma.s.s of living dead underneath.

"Are you going to drain him?" I ask.

"No time," she says. "We're taking him as he is. Just don't get any blood on you."

Through crawls.p.a.ces back to our home, the only room hidden from the un-dead, deep inside of the walls of the facility, brightened by fire light. We shove the large fleshy corpse through the tight s.p.a.ces as quick as we can. This one is hardly able to fit, but we grease him up with the oils built up in our scalps and privates to ease him through.

"Don't look at me," I tell Alyxa as she pets my cheek. "Don't touch me."

Upon arrival, several c.o.c.kroach boys rip the body from our arms and immediately string it upside-down from the ceiling, poke holes into its neck and wrists with bones carved into knives, bleeding it into a large saucer.

"Ahh, dinner is here," says a scratchy voice behind me. "And a very good piece of meat I see."

The voice forms into the shape of a man as he steps out of the shadows and into the fire light.

"Everything went perfect then, I see."

"Not exactly," we tell him.

"What do you mean, not exactly?'

"I'm sorry, Thomas..." I say. "We lost the boy."

The man's eyes droop from their lids, and his mouth s.h.i.+vers. He lets out a shriek and fails to his chubby knees, covering his face to cry. "No, not Charlie, anyone but Charlie," he says in his tears. He sounds almost sarcastic.

"He didn't scream," I tell him. "It couldn't have been a painful death."

"Of course he didn't scream," Thomas shrieks at me. "I taught him not to scream, not to give in to pain or fear."

"I'm sorry, Thomas," I say, but the man curls into a fat ball and rocks back and forth.

"Come warm me," the man says to the c.o.c.kroach boys draining the corpse, and they stop their work to huddle around him, pressing their sickly forms against his fleshy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, gurgling.

I step away from time, into the cold shadows to Alyxa who drinks from the drippy pipes. The corners of the room are littered with sick dying children and an old woman.

Alyxa kneels to the old woman.

"Take the blanket off," the woman begs with a leechy voice, her head swaying from side to side. And Alyxa removes the blankets, rubs the places where her arms and legs used to be, the stumps still scabbed and infected.

"Thank you," says the woman. Alyxa smiles.

The woman's name is Mrs. Boontide. I don't know if she has a first name. Her husband was killed by Thomas several months ago, for breaking his rules. Thomas was always looking for an excuse to kill and eat the elderly. Mrs. Boon-tide is the last.