Dead Men (and Women) Walking (14 page)

Roughly, he shoved her away
from him. The rooftop edge had a tiny barrier, a two bar railing,
her feet tripped against it and she fell screaming. Her arms
flapped, looking, begging for something to grip. Mack stepped
away.

He looked to the door. There
was no time to go down and nowhere to hide. At the side of the
door, he spied a fire hose of the type used for the top floors of a
building that the fire brigade couldn’t reach within
seconds.

Mack rushed to it. In his
head, he saw the rooftop door viewed from the bottom of the steps
inside.

Christ, he had no time for
thought. No time to change his mind, think of another way. In
movies, under controlled conditions, this stunt always worked. He
prayed it was the same in reality.

Grabbing the nozzle, he
yanked a yard of hose free. It piled at his feet.

The door burst
open.

He ran to the edge at the
same time wrapping it around his waist. There was no time to secure
the thick hose, Mack had to hold and hope.

The undead, mouths covered
in blood, and one wearing a black suit jacket a size or two too
small, stared at the hose a moment then looked up at Mack. They
smiled.

He jumped.

Breakneck speed.

Air rushed around him.
Windows flashed by at incredible speed. He fell for only a couple
of seconds before the hose stopped with a forceful jolt and shot
him toward a blackened window.

He braced for the
impact.

He struck it hard, and
bounced off.

Suddenly he was falling
again. Then jolted to a stop. He looked up and figured the hose
reel had come free. It had to be caught against the railing. He
looked down. He was five or six floors from the ground. A little to
the left was a car; next to it lay Angie’s crumpled
body.

Mack put his feet against
the window and pushed away, praying the hose reel would hold. If he
got enough of a swing, there might just be enough force to break
the window. Big time pain was headed his way.

But God damn it, he didn’t
want to die.

Mack got a good swing going
when a screeching sound of twisting metal terrified him. He hit the
window, bounced again. Quickly, he braced his legs against the
window and swung with all his might. He arched away from the
window...

And dropped.

He slammed back first onto
the car’s roof. The force shattered all the windows, and glass
sprayed the road.

Mack’s eyes were open and he
was breathing. Somehow, he was still breathing. A circular shape
plummeted toward him from the roof. It took a second for his dizzy
brain to realize it was the fire hose reel.

His back screamed in agony
as he rolled sideways and dropped off the crushed metal. He hit the
ground face first. Felt his nose shatter and the wetness of blood
covering his lips.

Slowly he turned his head.
Under the car, he could see Angie’s hand laying in the gutter, a
line of blood traced its way from her shoulder to her
palm.

The fire hose reel missed
the car. He heard it thump into Angie and fall sideways, clattering
on the pavement. Her body jolted from the strike.

“
Get up,” he told himself
and was surprised at how strained his voice sounded. His hand
reached up, found the door’s window frame and gripped it tightly.
Using it for support, Mack slowly got to his feet.

The world around him was
blurred.

He took a step forward.
Almost fell but regained his balance at the last moment. Then took
another step. And another, and another.

By E.P. Spader

Breath burst into my lungs
like a fast-spreading July wildfire. With it came an explosion of
panic; my heart beat quick and irregular and sweat dribbled and
pooled in cold, loose pores in my skin. I was shaking
uncontrollably and my limbs seemed to twitch and writhe in a
spastic melody directed by a foreign conductor. After a moment of
this, a feeling of relief slowly crept in and with it came thoughts
of Paul. I had to find him—my life depended on it.

Nothing seemed right. My
left arm, which I knew was broken, didn't hurt even when moved. I
was lying by the side of the road. It was dark, with only a few
scattered, dim lights visible on the distant horizon. The others
were milling about aimlessly, rummaging through the remains of
broken-down cars lying dead in the road for God-knows-what. I
didn't feel right. I felt as though I were dying. My head pounded
mercilessly and everything was covered in a soft, bluish haze. I
had to find Paul. He could help. He was the only one who could. I
wished that I had some aspirin.

I got up with very little
effort, favoring my left arm even though I didn't need to. It hung
limp at my side and dangled there like a dead, broken branch
teetering in the wind. A bone jutted painlessly out of pierced
purple skin at an almost impossible angle. It looked gruesome. The
others glanced at me and provided nods of support but could do
little else to alleviate my anxiety. A quick look westward told me
that that was the direction I need to go—toward the lights. Paul
would be there.

I stumbled along slowly,
hugging the side of the expressway in nearly complete darkness as I
traveled westward toward the lights. My legs, filled with pins and
needles, felt like a toddler's. Every so often I would stumble into
a car blanketed by shadows near the guardrail or step into a rut
and fall. No matter. I kept my eye on the prize and plodded forward
despite desperate, fleeting notions of giving up and dying there in
the road like a wounded animal. The others were there, too,
following me as if I were some bizarre pied piper of Hamelin. They
didn't talk. Like me, they just kept moving.

The sun was up by the time
we reached the college—the source of the lights. The doors and
windows of its main entrance were barricaded with a flotsam of
oddments of wood, furniture and scrap metal. Some of the others
began the long, tedious task of deconstructing the barrier, but I
was smarter than that; I moved to the south of the building. The
maintenance garages were there, and they'd be much easier to
breach. A handful of others, taking notice of my plan,
followed.

The folding, aluminum garage
doors were locked, but barely sturdy. Finding a long piece of iron
rebar, I constructed a makeshift lever and easily pried off the
lock. The folding door swung up to reveal nothing but a rusted-out
tractor and heaps of tools and spare parts buried in the darkness
within. Beyond the darkness the faint glow of artificial light
leaked from beneath a door. And beyond that, voices.

All at once, something in me
changed that affected my fundamental reasoning. My pulse quickened.
My eyes grew wide and thirsty. The voices, now deafening due to an
escalating argument among, from what I could tell, two young men
and a woman, rang heavily in my ears and acted as the catalyst that
had me running for the door. In my haste, I clumsily knocked into a
pail that flew end-over-end into a pile of debris. The door
immediately flew open. In its threshold, silhouetted in a bath of
fluorescent light, stood three people: two men and a woman. Paul
was among them.

“
Paul!” I screamed,
sounding more like “Parr,” with a deep-resonating gurgle.
Constricted and dry, my throat was simply unable to wrap itself
around the word. Again: “Paul!” Worse this time, resembling little
more than a grunt.

A flash of light and
thunderclap came in response as I was thrown back from the impact
of the .12 gauge slug that burrowed deep into my chest. Unhurt and
undeterred, I immediately got to my feet and continued my full-out
sprint toward the door.

“
No!” Paul
screamed.

The throng of the others
were piling into the maintenance garage behind me, but I reached
Paul first. He was mine. They'd simply have to share the other pair
amongst themselves.

“
Paul,” I tried again as I
embraced him and held him still. Again, an incoherent croak. I was
salivating. My eyes were saucers. I bit into the back of his head
and felt the warmth of his blood trickle past my teeth. I managed
to crack through his skull in less time than I ever thought
possible.

His brain tasted like pink
cotton candy.

By Arthur
Sánchez

The Wednesday night meeting
of Z.A.P.2, (Zombies are People, 2 -- the morons couldn’t figure
out how to incorporate a “T” into their name so they use a number),
is well under way when Hammer and I get there. Hammer hates the
place and it’s always a struggle to get him to show up. He hates
having to go to support group meetings. He hates that zombies
aren’t free to do what they are meant to do. But most of all he
hates the group counselor -- Mrs. Finklestein. That’s cause Mrs.
Finklestein has it in for us. She doesn’t think we’re good zombies
-- which to tell the truth we’re not. So I had to make certain
promises to Hammer just to get him in the building.

Of course, walking in Hammer
plops himself down right by the door and refuses to go any further.
At 6’ 6” and two hundred and fifty pounds of rippin muscle nobody’s
going to change his mind anyhow. But that’s all right cause tonight
that’s a good place for him to be. That, of course, means that I’ve
got to take a seat in the “circle.” That’s Mrs. Finklestein’s idea
– that all us zombies sit in a circle to support each other. I made
a crack once about it being the circle of not life but nobody got
it. Being dead these numb-nuts have less of a sense of humor than
they did when they were alive.

“
Robert,” Mrs. Finklestein
says in her fake cheery voice as I approach the group, “so nice of
you to join us – and almost on time, too.” She smiles that big
dumb-ass smile of hers -- as if she’s said something clever. Stupid
old cow hasn’t said something clever since before they buried, then
ate, Grover Cleveland.

“
Bite me,” I tell her as I
take my seat. Poor old Hoskins, who’s in the next chair, actually
gives me a glassy stare and starts to lean over -- his mouth
puckering as he tries to get his choppers working. Old goat ends up
getting saliva on my coat.

“
James!” Mrs. Finklestein
shouts as she leaps up. Now there’s a sight, 400 pounds of dead
blubber wriggling to its feet. Even the support hose can’t make
that look appetizing. “For shame! We are not mindless animals. We
are people, too. We can overcome our weaknesses. We are better than
that.”

I gotta say one thing for
the fat cow, when she gets her dander up she can be damn
impressive. That tone of righteous indignation in her voice has
caused many a zombie to crumble with shame and remorse. Like
they’re to blame for being what they are. Hoskins rheumy eyes
actually start to tear as he mumbles his apologies. I turn away in
disgust. What’s the point in living (or not living) if you gotta be
like that?

“
And Robert,” Mrs.
Finklestein says as she turns to me, blubber all aquiver, “I’d
appreciate it if you kept a civil tongue in your head. Inflammatory
statements such as that will not be tolerated.”

“
Sure,” I say with a shrug
of my shoulders, knocking some of the graveyard dirt off my coat
and onto the floor, “love to. If you tell me where I can find a
civil tongue I’ll rip it out and keep it in my head. It won’t be a
problem cause I got this hole right back here where that cop shot
me last year.” I lift up my ponytail and show them where part of my
skull is missing. The sight of exposed brain gets Hoskins quivering
like a pervert at a tittie show.

Things might have blown up
right then and there if Veronica didn’t shown up. Sweet, sweet,
Veronica, dead six years and guys still try to pick her up. Long
black hair, big blue eyes, the graveyard pallor of her skin only
making her sexier. Before she got caught, and forced to attend
support meetings, she used to cruise the bars downtown for her
meals. You know what I’m saying – a real man-eater.

Veronica’s stiletto heels
clicking on the classroom floor draws everyone’s attention away
from Mrs. Finklestein’s indignant face. To tell the truth, I think
the old cow is glad for the interruption. There is only so much she
could do to any of us, and she knows it. So instead of calling me
on my bad attitude, she takes the easy way out.