Aftershock: A Collection of Survivors Tales (3 page)

I told you so. I told everyone something like this was going to happen. Did they believe me? Fuck no! They called me a crackpot, or a nutcase. They made fun of me behind my back, and to my face. Who’s laughing now shitheads? I’m sitting here in my bunker with my feet up watching DVDs with the wife and kids as the rest of you scramble to stay alive. I wonder how that bitch down the street is doing. The one who made it a point to tell my beautiful wife every time she saw her that she should get herself and the kids away from someone as unstable as me.

How about the assholes from work who snickered when I walked in or out of a room. All those losers who I tried to warn because I am a nice, Christian man. Wonder what they are up to. I bet they are either dead or close to it. I heard knocks at the bunker door a few weeks back. It sounded like Charlie from accounting. I told people when the world goes to shit you better not try my house. I am prepared, but you have to prepare yourself too. They laughed at me for being a prepper, then show up thinking I am going to feed and protect them. Fuck that. I’ve got my wife and kids to think of.

Our bunker is an underground fortress. It’s comfortable too. Nancy was pissed when I spent a huge chunk of our savings on it, but she knew I only wanted to take care of her and the kids, so she let it go after a while. It’s like a condo. I had it custom made by a company in the south, and brought to our property. They did an awesome job. We’ve got all the comforts of home. Most preppers have a bunker or safe room, but I have the Cadillac of all bunkers. God love my wife, she spent the first year after I got it installed decorating the place to feel like home.

We’ve got food for the four of us that will last us another year or so. Our water supply is getting used a bit faster than I thought it would. Power isn’t an issue. As long as the sun shines we have power. I have a backup generator also, but haven’t needed it yet. The ham radio has kept us in contact with other preppers. We’ve been listening to the reports from across the globe, and the news isn’t good. It’s freaking terrifying. People are dead, or walking dead. Most people were not prepared for the breakdown of society and panicked. Stores were out of food in days. There was no one there to stop people from raiding and looting.

It sounds like it happened the same everywhere. People ran out of supplies, even with the ones they stole. Then they began attacking neighbors. Once the area was picked clean many just left. Most of those people died trying to get wherever they thought safety would be. From there it was two possibilities, dead eaten or dead zombie. Not us preppers though. We saw this coming. We had our plan B ready to go. All those days that people felt we wasted put to use in an instant. My children knew instantly what to do through the trainings I gave them that others called abuse.

I’m not happy that I was right, and technically I wasn’t completely right. I thought the whole thing would end due to hyperinflation. Joe in Maine worried about the Super-flu. Betsy in Texas said it would be a dirty bomb. Drew in Washington was sure it would be a Super-volcano. Les in Key West put his money on Global War. We all had our theories. None were right, except Chris in Jersey, he swore it would be zombie apocalypse. I’m guilty of thinking he was a nutcase too, so maybe I should be a little less pissed at those who judged me.

It is written “And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works.” I used to preach that this was a beautiful and miraculous event, the light of the Lord shining in judgment of His children. I told them that the every man according to his works part meant that if they spent their lives serving the Lord that He would smile on them and deliver them into Heaven. I have gained new perspective on this verse in these last months. The Heavenly Father has indeed poured out his judgment on His children. Needless to say, we have been found sorely wanting. It has been postulated that this plague is caused by a virus or parasite or microwaves or cosmic radiation depending on which scientist happens to be holding the microphone when what’s left of the press is around. Not one of them has stated what is patently obvious to anyone without the burden of a PhD. God is angry. For too long we have turned our backs on Him, and now He turns His back on us. Every man according to his works. There are those in these times of tribulation, not the capital “T” tribulation mind you, I do not believe we have even made it that far yet, there are those that prey upon their brethren in an even more merciless manner than do the dead. I have seen with my own eyes the true nature of the evil we fight, and it does not moan and slouch. It smiles and begs a drink of water or a bit of food before it buries a knife in your chest then rapes your wife while you bleed to death on the floor of the sanctuary. Then he leaves the door open behind him so the dead can follow behind and finish the job.

As I lay there bleeding, making my final peace and praying for my wife I heard them attack him outside. I regret to say that my reaction to this was most unchristian. In my heart I rejoiced as his screams were lost under the gurgling sound of his own blood pouring from his throat and the tearing sound of his own flesh. I have begged forgiveness for this weakness and I believe the Father has granted it to me. I however, lacked the strength to bar the door before those things gained entry into the sanctuary. I could barely make it to my knees by this point. I prayed with all my power that the Lord would spare us. Half of my prayer was granted. I have since understood that it was His will that my wife should not live with the burden of what was done to her. Four of them came dragging in from the narthex. I made it to my feet not under my own power and grabbed a brass candlelighter. I attempted to close the distance and put myself between them and her. I was not able. They set upon her and had torn her apart before I could even manage more than a few steps. I swung the lighter will all the force I could muster, and, I believe a little more from another source, and stove in the skull of the first one I could reach. The others turned to me and advanced. I closed my eyes and swung wildly to no avail. I felt hands close around my wrists breaking one of them and I dropped the lighter. Refusing to open my eyes, I felt broken teeth sink into my arm. I prayed one last prayer the Lord would welcome His child home not far behind his wife. It was then that I heard the running footsteps. These things don’t run. I opened my eyes in time to see a swinging hammer come down on the head of the one that had bitten me. Two more individuals had appeared and were summarily dispatching the other two ghouls.

“Sorry Padre. We came running when we heard the screaming. I guess we didn’t make it in time.”

The screaming they were referring to was that of my attacker. I could manage no more than a sick sucking sound and my wife made no noise during the entire ordeal. I slumped into one of the pews and then the black curtain closed around me. I believe I was dead. I saw the fabled white light and heard the voices of my family. I had the sensation of floating out of myself and of being bathed in a warm glow. It was then that my wife appeared to me with another man standing behind her. She looked at peace as the man placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked at me with those beautiful hazel eyes I had fallen in love with every day for the last thirty years and shook her head.

“No Samuel. You are not done yet.”

All at once I was yanked back into my body and I became aware of three men kneeling over my supine body. One was applying pressure to the wound on my chest while the other clumsily attempted CPR. I coughed once and sprayed them with blood. Only the one that had his hands on my chest did not turn away repulsed.

As I gasped for air I heard one of them say, “Hit ‘em! He’s turnin’! I told you he was gonna turn!”

“Not yet,” the other replied, “Way too soon. We keep him alive as long as we can. When he turns, we’ll deal with it then.”

But I did not “turn”. They brought me to the last physician in the area. His home was littered with the sick and dying. He examined my stab wound and pronounced me the luckiest man on the face of the earth. Apparently, the knife was not very big and missed every major artery. It did not do much tissue damage either according to the good doctor. He casted my wrist with some drywall plaster and gave me three ibuprofen. He said he would be back to check on me shortly. I watched from a gurney in the hallway as he and two nurses moved from patient to patient with a lightning efficiency that was awe inspiring. Every so often they would stop at a “bed” and motion to three large men sitting on a couch. I noticed two of the men that had brought me here, but did not recognize the third. They would move toward the patient and gently carry him or her outside. There would be a short crack and a soft whistle of air and the three would come back inside and sit on the couch. In the evening, we could smell the pleasant aroma of a campfire, though with a not so pleasant odor underneath that I either did not know or just refused to admit was what human flesh smells like when it burns.

I stayed there for three weeks. All the while, I was watched. First with caution, then with curiosity, finally with blatant incredulity. Not one who had been brought in with a bite mark had lasted more than three days before my large friends would take him for a final walk. The doctor began to wean me off the pain medication he had “prescribed” though I suspect it more to do with dwindling supply than the possibility of my growing an addiction. As my head cleared from the opiates the new reality began to set in. As I lay, convalescing on the doctor’s couch, I had believed that I had made peace with God for what had happened. My mind no longer numbed, I realized this was not true. Each morning I would grow to hate the Lord more for what he had taken from me. I was spared news of what was going on outside the walls of the doctor’s home. At the time I had no idea that the entire world had gone to Hell and I wallowed, selfishly like a child, in my own pity. I ate little and spoke not at all, merely sat and scowled and cursed God under my breath. My three large friends began to question my sanity. I heard them arguing with the doctor one evening as to how to handle me. I understood the doctor’s medical curiosity in his voice, and the fear and anger of the others’ in theirs. That night as I lay dozing, I heard the three guards discussing amongst themselves what might need to be done and how to do it. It did not sound like the clean, humane ending I had seen them deal to all the others.

Later, as the others slept, I penned a brief letter of thanks to the doctor, helped myself to a few provisions from the cupboard, donned a pair of jeans and a sweater from the pile of clothes near the door, and slipped quietly into the back yard. The gentleman on guard duty sat dozing in a rocking chair on the front porch, some sort of Rambo-looking assault rifle in his lap. I had no idea where I was going. I did not care. I even argued with myself as to why I left. I wanted to die. My grief over losing my wife and my anger at God were only continuing to grow at this point. I set it in my mind to return to my church. And burn it to the ground. After that I would curl up in a ditch somewhere and wait… for what I did not know. I encountered very few of the dead on my journey back to the church, which was a blessing as I had not thought to grab any kind of weapon. I found those I did come across to be easily avoided. It took me about a day and a half to return to my town and when I saw the steeple of my church rise over the hill in front of me, my blood boiled. All the rage I had been struggling with came to the surface and I broke into a run. As I neared the door I realized it had been barricaded, as had most of the windows. I could see wooden pews stacked behind the glass.

I rounded the back looking for the gas can that we kept by the shed full of various lawn maintenance implements. I came around the back corner of the building and stopped in my tracks. I saw the remains of what looked like either a hastily constructed funeral pyre, or the most grotesque barbecue in Man’s history. Human bones from a dozen corpses lay mixed with charred wood and ash. As I stood stunned by the site I heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked behind me.

“Put you hens in the air!” yelled a disembodied voice, heavily laden with a Latino accent.

I did as I was told. My intentions of burning down the church evaporated and all of the sudden I found my will to live again. Funny how something as simple as having a large gun pressed against your spine can bring things into perspective. I heard frantic muttering in Spanish, some of the words I could make out like “padre” and “iglesia”. “Father” and “church”. I did not feel that it was the appropriate time to correct them. I was a United Methodist; we were not referred to as Father, but Reverend or Pastor. I also heard the word “mata” which I believe means “kill” and “muerta”, “dead”. I heard a pleading female voice and an angry male one. Then I heard a child. I slowly turned, hoping I would not be shot for the violation. I was confronted by a small family. Before any of us could continue the discussion we all heard the moans. Across the parking lot were four of them slouching slowly toward us.

“Adentro! Adentro,” screamed the man, then to me, “Inside. Quickly!”

We ran inside the back door and barred it from the inside with two-by-fours. In a moment we heard pounding and scraping from outside. The children, there were four altogether, ran for one of the Sunday school classrooms. I saw three women begin crying and praying, though quietly. Five more men came from the sanctuary each with a weapon of some kind. There was more rapid conversation in Spanish. After some reassuring from the man who had brought me inside, they finally seemed to notice my presence. More heated discussion in that smooth, oddly poetic tongue and again the man who had brought me inside seemed to assuage their fears.

“I tell them you no dead. They say ‘For now’.”

I did not know what to make of this cryptic statement, but it did not sound like a heartwarming welcome.

“My name Alejandro,” he said, “This is mi esposa Morena and mi hijo Berto.”

“I am, or was, Reverend Samuel Mathis. This was my church before…” I did not know how to continue. Before what? Before the dead began to rise and destroyed the world? Before that bastard raped and murdered my wife in the sanctuary not thirty feet from where I stood? Before I all but renounced my faith and turned my back on my God? I briefly wondered what their response would be if I told them I had returned here today with the intention of burning the building to the ground.

I was introduced to the rest of the group. Each gave a brief greeting and a firm handshake. A thud against the back door ended our little meet and greet rather abruptly. The children were swept into the sanctuary and Alejandro moved to one of the rear windows.

“Solomente hay uno, pero pienso viene tres mas,” he spoke rapidly to his compadres.

They moved to the back door and readied their bludgeons. Not wanting to be left out, I grabbed a table leg with a vicious looking nail jutting from it and stepped up beside the men.

“No, Padre, tienes descansar. You need to rest. You look like you have come through a war.” Alejandro attempted to move me toward a chair.

I shrugged him off and shook my head. “I will not stand by while others risk their lives to protect my church.”

They did not appear to grasp what I was saying so I stepped past them, threw open the door, and buried my makeshift cudgel in the forehead of the ghoul standing there. We moved out into the parking lot and stood abreast. There were three more approaching from the copse of trees. Corpses from the copse, I thought and chuckled.

“Que es chistoso?” Alejandro asked.

“Nada.” I replied, eliciting a bizarre sideways glance.

We advanced on the dead as a single unit and dispatched the trio easily. I had come to realize that they were little trouble to deal with, at least in small groups. Mind you this was before I saw my first swarm.

To shorten what has already become too long a tale, I stayed at the church for several weeks. We found that if we made no noise, the dead would pass right by without a glance. There was only one more occasion where direct intervention was necessary. We ate food from the pantry and we could gather on our few trips outside. I avoided stepping into the sanctuary, more because I did not need to see the stains on the floor rather than out of fear of divine retribution. I was treated with the utmost respect by my saviors, guests, housemates… I am not sure what to call them even now.

One evening, while out gathering what was left of the food from nearby houses, we noticed a distinct swell in the number of ghouls. They appeared to be wandering aimlessly with no real purpose, but there were certainly more of them now. Back inside the church there was a heated discussion that I was almost totally unable to follow. Later while taking stock of our dwindling supplies, Alejandro explained that they had made the decision to move on. It made sense to me to leave. With the growing number of fiends and the near depletion of resources here, we would have to consider a move to another location. Perhaps out west where population was thin even before our little apocalypse. Alejandro and his friends disagreed on where to go. Some wanted to go west for the reason I have already stated. The rest wanted to go north. They apparently believed that with winter on the way, the dead might move south toward warmer climates. As if they were migratory birds. I believed they would follow the food.