Undying (5 page)

  His eyes are as wide open as his hungry mouth. He salivates just looking at me. I push as hard as my weak legs will go just to get one step ahead of him. One step is all I need. I get to the door and, with all my strength, I fling it open while stepping to the side. It happens in slow motion. The boy doesn't know how to react to my sudden moves. He turns his head to watch me and the corner of the door smacks him in the center of the face. His nose splits, along with his forehead. His top middle teeth shatter into shards. The boy falls onto his ass and almost does a full back flip across the carpet. I look behind me and see two more coming in the house from the, still open, back door. They look like an elderly couple. If they weren't a couple when they were alive, they should have been. I run into the garage, the last safe room in the house. I close the door behind me and lock it. I roll the giant toolbox, my wife's dad gave us, in front of the door. It takes everything I have. My sneakers slip and my back screams until the toolbox is blocking the door enough to call it good. They bang on the door as hard as they can. They screech inhumanly. Those aren't people in there.

  So, here I am. Trapped in a garage. There's nothing I can do for now except survive. That's what I do. Three days go by in the garage. The first night I woke up to a cockroach on my face. The second night I woke up to gunshots, which was almost relieving in a way to know that there was still somebody out there. Seconds later I heard them scream. I guess, they didn't make it. The dead might have stopped banging on the door halfway through the first day but that doesn't mean they aren't still out there. I hear them from time to time. Either moaning or doing that disgusting cough noise. I knew the moment I ran in here that I would have to wait them out. The waiting wasn't bad until the canned fruit ran out. The juice was the only thing keeping me hydrated. Now, all I have is three cans of monkey dicks. Canned sausages sound like the worst thing in the world with how dry my mouth is. Nothing quite like preservative jelly that smells like hot dogs to quench the thirst. It pains me to know that there is four gallons of water just sitting on the coffee table. Maybe the dead got bored and wandered off. Just maybe. There's a little bit of daylight left. If I want to make a move, now is the time.

  I push the toolbox back into place. Doing so quietly takes a while. When it's out of the way, I press my ear against the door. I don't hear anything. I unlock the door and open it up a crack. The sunlight is quickly fading but from what I can see, there isn't any of them in the kitchen. I open the door all the way. My heart is pounding so loud I'm worried they are going to hear it. I enter the living room with the stealth of a ninja, tiptoeing every step. There aren't any of them in the living room. I can see the water on the table by the couch. I look down the hall and see them. It's the old couple. There is one in the back bedroom and one in the hall, the man. He's staring at the pictures on the wall as if some part of him understands. I grab two of the gallons from the table, one in each hand. I glance again at the weird old man as I head back to the garage. I look back to the door and see the young boy with the split face standing in my way. Just great. He howls like a banshee and rushes me. I bash him in the face with one of the gallons of water. Water sprays everywhere and he falls over. I get into the garage before he knows what hit him. I secure the room again and chug the remaining water with abandon. It pours down my face and shirt sloppily. You know you're thirsty when it physically hurts your throat to drink water. For a moment, I am happy. It's dark, now. I might as well get some sleep. I have a lot to figure out in the morning. As I force myself to get relaxed on the hard cement floor, my nightly depressing loneliness sets in. Every night I think of her. I long for her. I'm so tired of falling asleep alone. I'm so tired of wondering where you are. I'm so tired of waking up to this nightmare. I miss holding you, not worrying about what's outside or if there was water to drink. I miss worrying about how we were going to afford our next vacation, instead of worrying about how many times I can get away with pissing in this corner until it affects the quality of my survival in this room. I miss my life. I close my eyes. I don't dream that night. The time between me falling asleep to daybreak feels like a five minute nap. The only difference when I open my eyes is, aside from the brightness, my neck hurts, now.

  The wall paper is bubbled from years of extreme temperature changes in a room with no insulation. The cement is forever stained with the oil of the dozens of vehicles that have been worked on in here. The room has a certain stink like that of a mechanic's favorite work shirt. Is this it? Is this the room I die in? The thought sends me to my feet. There has to be something in here. My wife's dad put so much random junk in this house, there has to be something of use. I search everything. There's a enough tools to stock a workshop. A smarter, more mechanically inclined man could probably find a million uses of the stuff in here. A mechanic would probably MacGyver a helicopter, fully equipped with a turret that launches nuts and bolts. I'm not a mechanic, though. I'm the guy who never bothered to learn how much more than structures work. Architecture is more my style. No complex moving parts. I scavenge the room. I happen to find a bottle of Jameson tucked away behind the water heater. I wonder how long it has been here. The bottle is thick with dust. I use my shirt to wipe it clean. I hold it up to the light like I'm inspecting a treasure.

  "Well, that's an idea. Not like we have anything else to do." Who the hell am I talking to?

  I crack her open and take a sniff. Yuck. Even now, I can't much appreciate the scent of liquor. I sure can appreciate the effects, though. I tip the bottle back and swallow as much as my gag reflex will allow. It burns. The burn is strangely satisfying. It's pain. It's something real. Something that I can use to feed the fire. I swig again and again. The burn goes away after a while. Once it really settles in, you can appreciate the taste. This is quality whiskey. Binge drinking is something I left behind with adolescence, but I suppose, it doesn't matter anymore. I consume the bottle gulp after gulp. The liquid courage fills me with fire. I'm not talking about the burning in your stomach. I'm talking about a burning rage. Everyone is dead, now. Everything I've ever worked for is irrelevant. What is there left to do? I tell you what there is left to do. I take one last drink before pouring the last third of the bottle onto the ground.

  "I'm coming, you bastards!" I think I've lost it. "You hear me?!?"

  I grab our emergency gas can and fill the liquor bottle with gasoline. I grab a greasy rag and jam it into the bottle. I put it in the backpack, wrapped in clothes so that it doesn't fall over. Now, a weapon of some kind. I find a hammer and a saw. That is just impractical. I need something bigger. Something that packs a punch. I search through all the various compartments in the toolbox. There we go. I can't believe I forgot about this. Her dad showed me years ago, when he first let us stay here, he keeps a .357 revolver hidden in here. The medium sized silver pistol truly is a sight for sore eyes. The gun itself is loaded with six shots and six more bullets lay next to it. I throw the extra rounds in my pocket. I toss the backpack over my shoulder. I'm ready. This is probably the whiskey talking, but fuck being subtle. I've had it with hiding. There is nothing out there that is going to break me. What could, at this point? All you can do is kill me and I welcome it. I unlock the garage door, not the one going into the house, the one leading outside. Here we go.

  I pull the door open. It slides onto the track leading above my head. The glory of the destroyed neighborhood that was once very normal is a bit overwhelming. I scan the area for the dead. There are a few. They can't stop me. Not now, not ever. I leave and don't look back. I dart across the yard into the street. I'll take this side street all the way to the main road. I'm bound to find a car or something. I'm going to get out of this town. A few of the dead notice me. I shoot them in the legs. I know I'm not going to kill them, so I just slow them down. The first six rounds don't last long. I'm digging through my pockets for the bullets already. I need to be more conservative. I manage to reload while running at the same time. I look up and see the aftermath of a car accident. A bad one too. This car is flipped upside down. There's glass everywhere. I think I know this car. Oh, God. I do recognize this car. My unstoppable immortal feeling leaves me. I walk around to the driver's side. I look down at the driver. I knew it. God damn it, I knew it. 

 
There she is. After what felt like an eternity of restless lonely nights and worrying myself to a point of sickness, she is right in front of me. Looking up at me with her blood shot eyes, pupils clouded over a thick milky white. Her eyes are filled with longing, hunger, and a bit of what I can only describe as pure rage. Her eyes dart side to side and her jaw shakes out of urgency to take a bite out of me. I've never seen her look at me like that before. Mixed emotions like the excitement of finally getting to lay eyes on her clash with the horror of watching her teeth crack as she snaps at my ankles. Her, once porcelain perfect, face is now grayed and cracked. The skin on her cheek bones has tightened around the cusp, making her skeletal features eerily distinguishable. The cheeks themselves have sunken in and you can make out her teeth in several small tears grouped together on the left side of her face. Once again she has me freezing like a deer in the headlights about to get hit head on by a car. I feel weak. My eyes well up and I fall to my knees.

  "Oh, God. Why?"

  Ironic question for a man who doesn't believe in God. Not sure why but, that's the first thing I think.

  I notice her hand is reaching out for me. I have to stop myself from reaching back. If she gets a hold of me.. How did I get to this? How could everything get this bad? These past days have felt like a nightmare that I could wake up from at any moment. Now, of all times. Right when I had just manned up and accepted things I get hit with this. I wonder if I could've saved her if I just came out when my instincts told me to. I wonder if she suffered long. The more I think about it, the weaker I become. I know what the right decision is and I am the only one around to make it. I need to end her suffering.

  The revolver that was once her father's is gripped tightly in my hand. I press it against her forehead. I'm not sure if I can do this. How could I? I love her. I wrap my finger around the trigger. I turn my head so I don't have to see the horrible act I'm about to commit. Sniveling and shaking like a wounded child. I open my eyes and notice something. There's somebody in the passenger side, hanging loosely by their seatbelt. Whoever it is, they aren't moving.  They probably died in the crash. It's.. it's a guy? I crawl in closer and notice something I would have rather not known. The tight shirt wearing, football watching douche bag from across the street. The same one that always threw me dirty looks and I eventually ended up helping out. This loser? Really? All my feelings of sadness are instantly replaced with a deep seeded kind of hate that you can only get from true betrayal.

  "You bitch!" Instinctively, I aim the revolver and put a bullet through her forehead.

  Asphalt breaks apart behind her, leaving a small crater in the road. Brown gelatinous ooze pours from the nickel sized hole in her forehead. A smell fills my nostrils that I can only portray as garbage left rotting in direct sunlight. For a moment her eyes roll into the back of her head and she goes limp. After a couple short seconds she looks back up at me. Without hesitation, she reaches for me and goes back to snapping like a hungry animal. I should already know that wouldn't work. I stumble back and wrestle off my backpack. Hands still weak and trembling from shock, it feels about impossible to open the large compartment of the bag. I try my damnedest to focus on opening the bag and not think. Eventually I manage to steady my hand and pull the zipper back. The backpack opens and I reach in. As I feel the cold glass of the Molotov is within my grasp, emotion takes over.

  "How could you? After all these years, how the hell could you do this? You left me on my own to die in this shit storm, for this guy?!"

  I've somehow managed to get the gas soaked rag lit without actually thinking about igniting it. All I can think is how can any human being be so twisted to do this to anyone? What could possibly be her reason for throwing all these years away? I just wish she was really here so she can look at me with that dumbfounded expression and lie to my face like she probably has so many times before. You know what? I'm over it. Somehow, it has all clicked. All the nonsensical drama that you've created over the years make sense, now. You've always just been selfish and impossible. Somehow, I know that and I can take some solace in that fact.

  I throw the flaming bottle downward right at her face. It bashes her in the bridge of her nose and shatters. It dents in like a kicked pumpkin. The liquid becomes fire the second it touches the air. Flames envelope her and dance across her flesh. She begins to blacken and split apart like a burning hotdog. I turn around to leave at this point. If I witness anything else traumatizing.. I just don't know. I'm not sure I would be able to handle it very well. This is all so surreal.

  Her screams are bone chilling. As the fire breaks apart her lungs, her squeals of agony become more and more shrill. I slow my pace as tears blur my vision. Her voice cracks and for a short time, she sounds human. She sounds just like I remember her any time she's been in pain. Her haunting shout sends me to my knees and for the last time I cry.

  After a moment of helpless weeping, I notice something. She's quiet. Finally. The horrid noises my love was making have stopped. I sluggishly force myself to stand and turn to face her. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the end of my sleeve. I peel my eyes open and gaze into the fire. She's in there. Motionless and quiet. This is so confusing. Part of me hates you and the other part wishes you would have just stayed. It could have been different. At the very least, I put you to rest.

  "I'm sorry that I wasn't.. better."

  A deep groan catches my attention. It sounds like it is coming from behind me. I look up to investigate and I see them. How did I not notice so many of them? They're everywhere. Some are down the street a ways but most of them are almost within grabbing distance. Hungry decomposing faces, some of which I recognize as neighbors, getting closer by the second. The closest one to me is an old man that lives three houses down. He would always smile and wave as we would pass by him in his old truck. Now, he's looking at me with his mouth wide open ready to take a bite. I know I should shoot or, maybe, run. I can't though. It's too much for me. I can feel my legs stiffening up and my hand shaking.

  He lunges at me. His small hands produce a surprisingly tight grip on my shirt. His breath that smells like a dead animal hits me as he tries to take a bite out of my cheek. Somehow, I have enough of my wits to reach for the revolver and step back. My legs are still stiff. I trip over my feet and hit the ground. I look up at the once kind and gentle old man, now, face twisted with rage and drooling black rotted sludge. In my mind, I apologize. I pull the trigger to the revolver and send the poor old man's left eye out of the back of his skull. He tumbles back into another one of them and they both fall down.

  "Holy shit."

  I jump to my feet and look around at the horde surrounding me. There's more of them. One or two turned into fifty a hell of a lot faster than I thought. I look down at the old man, some part of me expecting to see him out for the count. He's already back up. Without thinking about it I scream a bit girlishly and start running in the direction with the least of those things. I spot a path and dart through it. Luckily, I push one of them over just right by ramming him with my shoulder and he stumbles into a couple others. They domino to my convenience. I try to stay hunkered down, which probably looks ridiculous when an untrained individual such as myself is doing so. A little old lady stumbles right into my path and reaches for my face. I wince my eyes closed and smack her in the face with the back end of the revolver as hard as I can. I peel my eyes open in time to watch her dentures pour out of her mouth along with a consistent flow of chunky brown fluid. Her face is cracked in the middle so every time she snaps at me her face splits a little. Her gelatinous black gums dangle and drip from her face. She chomps mindlessly at the air, stunned from the blow. Brown and dark red liquid gush from the wound. Grossed out, I push her to the side and run as fast as I can. I do my best to jump over her legs as I pass. The moans of the others are close and there are more of them waiting in the distance.

  My heart is racing and my breaths are frequent but I'm still running. I'm still going. My hands are shaking but I pull up the gun and aim it at the head of a rather large guy running right at me. He lets out a beastly roar as he gets within reach. I pull the trigger and the gun kicks back. The side of his face comes off and his jaw hangs to the side. He gargles and falls over. I know he will be back up though. I push my aching legs to their limits. My feet clap loudly against the street. There's no time to be quiet. I know they have got to be right behind me. If they catch me. Oh God, if they catch me they will rip me into pieces. I'll have to experience the pain of being eaten and disemboweled alive. I push my legs a little harder, ignoring whatever pain and fatigue I feel. There is no time to feel.

  For some reason a memory of being a young kid comes back to me. It was probably the last time I had to run this hard. This other kid at school tried to pick on me. The weird thing was he was a lot smaller than myself with dorky little premature dark mustache hairs. So, I warned him to back off. He didn't and I broke his nose. I'm not gonna lie it was on complete accident. Yes, I meant to punch him but I didn't know he would start bleeding everywhere like a damn action movie. The principal saw it fit to give me in school suspension, which wasn't the worst part. After school his five brothers were waiting for me. Typical coward can't get in a scuffle without calling your twelve brothers and thirty cousins, I thought to myself. I tried to walk around them but, of course, they surrounded me. Once the first guy started moving in I started flailing my fists in the direction of his face. These guys weren't little kids, though. They were several years older than me and my tiny blows weren't having the same effect they did on their younger brother. Once I caught the first full on dazing punch, I booked it. I shoved my way out of their reach and ran home. I was running as hard as I could. I was literally seeing stars and having trouble running straight. Home wasn't far but each step felt like an eternity. The whole time I kept telling myself they were right behind me. I swear, I could feel them grabbing at my backpack and I could hear their footsteps. When I got home and looked back they were nowhere in sight. They might not have even chased me once I got away. I just imagined them grabbing at me and the footsteps I heard were, most likely, an echo of my own. I think about that moment now and slow my running speed. I turn back to see if, by chance, the street is clear and maybe they got distracted by something. I turn back to look and I see the large snarling guy with his hanging jaw. He is at a full sprint and within reach of me. Before I can react, he tackles me to the ground. His jaw bone crunches and pops as he snaps at my face. Dark goo splashes my cheek as I squirm in attempt to escape his grasp.

  He is heavy. Aside from his dead weight, no pun intended, his grip is tight and hard as nails. I can feel his boney fingers digging into my arm. I push up on him as hard as I can to keep him from biting me. He isn't letting the use of half his jaw slow him down any. He bites at me as hard as he can. His teeth loosely click together and his gaping wound is making a disgusting squishing sound. He thrusts his face towards me and almost takes off the tip of my nose. I shift his weight to the right and knee him as hard as I can. It isn't working at all. Another one of them falls down towards us. She a frightening older woman who appears to have somehow lost half of her face and her left arm. Lucky for me, she knocks the big guy to the side. I, with ease, push her away and climb to my feet. There's no time to celebrate. They've surrounded me yet again. At least, there's only a dozen or so, I think to myself, seething with sarcasm.

  I see an opening. A clear shot, if I'm quick, to a house with the front door wide open. I run, or try to. One of them has a hold on my backpack. Without hesitating, I take the bag off. I pull free and plow my way through the small crowd. The big guy is on my tail again. He's faster than the others, he may have just recently turned. I put one in his kneecap for good measure. As he steps forward, his knee gives in and his leg folds backwards. He falls forward into his own momentum. I chuckle and sprint to my goal. I cut across the driveway of this home. I can see into the house from here. This is my chance. I run inside and bump into something. Something that smells like sewer. He's a big one. A tall guy wearing tattered overalls. This guy looks like he was strong when he was alive. I'm not taking any chances. I fire a round from my trusty revolver into his face. His nose disappears and his eyes roll back in a daze. Before he can recover, I drop the gun and grab him by his overalls. It takes everything I have to throw him out of the front door. The second he hits the ground he begins to twitch violently. He's getting back up but I'm not going to give him the chance to get me. I slam the door shut and lock the handle, bolt, and chain. I run into the living room. Besides some dried blood on the carpet, the living room looks exactly how I imagine it did when this all started. The coffee table is neatly organized, complete with coasters and a stack of magazines. I scan the room and find a wooden chair in the corner. I grab it and run back to the front door. I jam it up under the doorknob. It should buy me some time.

  I run back into the living room and prop up the couch against the main window looking outside. The curtains are drawn and the window is still intact. After getting the couch set up covering half of the window, I push the entertainment center over in front of the exposed half. Luckily for me, TVs are very light these days and the entertainment center only takes a few seconds to move. Next, I run to the kitchen. Right when I think to myself "I wonder if they even know I'm in here," I hear them banging their lifeless limbs against the wood of the door. I slide across the kitchen tile. I see the back door is already closed. That's good. Next, I need a weapon. I see a knife block on the counter. I pull out a bread knife at first. I toss it aside and pull out another. A butcher's knife. That should make quick work of some of them.