David Bernstein - Machines of the Dead

Like a kid on Christmas morning, Jack sat on the floor, took the keys from his pocket, and opened the first lockbox. Lifting the lid, he saw the Sig Sauer P226 inside. Not wanting to be unarmed a moment longer, he removed the trigger guard, then opened the ammo box, an army green, 30 caliber, M19A1 container he picked up at an army-navy store, grabbed a box of 9 mm bullets, and loaded the fifteen round clip. After popping the clip in, he gently racked the slide and was ready for business. Flipping the safety on, he placed the weapon down, eager to see the next gift.

He opened the box containing his. 45, a Smith and Wesson 1911 handgun. After removing the trigger guard, he loaded the eight round clip and drew the slide back before setting the safety switch to the on position. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so powerful, so invincible, so good. Then he did remember, and it had nothing to do with firearms. The last time he had felt this good was when he and Jess were sitting on the couch, watching television, his arms wrapped around her. Suddenly, the ecstatic feeling he had was gone.

He picked up both handguns like the hero in some action flick, and admired them. A spark of anger ignited within him, warming his soul with hate. He wished he could shoot each individual bot, slowly making each one suffer as he destroyed them all. But the best he could do was help the living, and send the animated dead back to the grave.

He grabbed the bag holding his Remington. 30–06, unlocked the trigger guard and had the weapon loaded and ready to go within moments. Most likely, he’d be running around, climbing, and banging into things, so he didn’t bother with the scope.

Finally, the big momma was left, his Mossberg 500, a 12-gauge shotgun. After removing the trigger guard, he loaded five shells of buckshot, then cocked the weapon, making room for another shell.

Now, Jack was ready for anything short of a nuke. The undead would fall easily at his feet; people too if they so chose to try and hurt him or anyone he was trying to save. As much as he would like to believe people wouldn’t be a problem, he knew it was a possibility. And with that thought in mind, Jack couldn’t remember if he’d locked the apartment’s front door.

Tucking the Sig Sauer into his pants, he hurried to the door and locked it. Standing there a moment, he realized he was hungry, and headed to the kitchen where he grabbed a can of baked beans and a can of corn. Using a can-opener that was resting on the counter, he sat at the table and opened the cans. After eating about half of each one’s contents, he replaced the lids, and went to check on his friend.

Zaun lay on his back, just as Jack had left him, the man’s stomach rising and falling with each breath. He smiled as his heart filled with warmth. He had no idea how long it would be before his friend would wake, but he was elated the guy was alive. Zaun would need time to regain his strength, to heal, and by the looks of him, Jack figured it would be at least a few days, maybe even a week. He wouldn’t leave until Zaun was able to defend himself, and strong enough to descend the side of the building via the rope. From what he saw of Zaun’s supplies, waiting a few days for his friend to recover would be doable, unless of course, the city was nuked; but he didn’t want to think about that, at least not for now.

Leaving Zaun to rest, Jack took the shotgun and the Sig Sauer and checked out each of the apartments on the floor. He found no survivors and no bodies, dead or undead. Any useful items were gone, taken either by Zaun, or by whoever survived.

Checking out the stairwell through the small glass window, he saw that a number of the undead had gathered just outside the door. Upon noticing him, they came toward him. Jack recognized the big guy from a few levels down. So, they could walk up stairs. He didn’t want to leave them there, and tried opening the door, but a number of undead were pressing against it, making it difficult to do so. He had an idea.

Walking to the stairwell at the other end of the floor, Jack peered through the window, scanning the area with his flashlight. All clear, he opened the door, and went down a flight. After making sure the hallway on the 22nd floor was void of undead, he went in.

Here, the apartment doors were all closed. Jack made his way quickly to the other end, peered through the window, then opened the door. He stepped into the stairwell, leaving the door ajar. He could hear the undead on the floor above him as they pawed and pushed at the metal door.

“Hey, assholes!” Jack yelled, his voice booming in the enclosed space. He waited as the undead began coming down the stairs. He heard a few thuds, guessing one of the undead had taken a fall, then saw a zombie dragging itself down the stairs as if its spinal cord had been severed.

Jack waited as it rounded the banister, then aiming his Sig, fired at the thing’s head, stopping it cold. The others were coming down the steps slowly, and one by one, he took them out until there were four dead bodies, including the big guy, in a pile at the foot of the stairs.

Letting the door close, Jack went to the nearest apartment and checked it for undead. Finding none, he went back to the stairwell and one by one, dragged the corpses into the apartment. Knowing he and Zaun would be using the stairs, he wanted the foul-smelling things out of the way.

With that done, Jack went through the rest of the dwellings on the floor before checking out the ones on the two floors below. He found that almost all the residences he visited had pots of water in them, just sitting on the stove as if everyone had decided to boil something, but never got around to doing so.

After spending a few hours searching the places, finding a few supplies but nothing special, he returned to Zaun’s.

Two days went by before Zaun was fully conscious and able to sit up and use the facilities on his own. Before that, Jack had fed and washed him. Zaun explained about filling pots of water and leaving them in the other apartments, the water used for washing and toilet flushing in case the electricity went out. His actions had proved beneficial, the only drawback — having to go to the other apartments to do his business, and carrying heavy pots of water back to his when he felt like it.

Throughout Zaun’s recovery, Jack talked about his own adventures, from waking up tied to a wheelchair to entering Zaun’s apartment.

“So, that’s how you saved my ass?” Zaun asked. “With a T aser?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, smiling, not telling his friend how close to death he had really come.

“You’ve been a busy man.”

Jack laughed. “Compared to you, it seems I had it easy.”

Zaun sat up in bed and took a sip of Gatorade.

“Yeah,” he said, “cleaned out the whole building, give or take a few places. Couldn’t get them all, those undead fuckers. It was tiring, having to swing a sword so many times and run around gathering supplies. Wish I had the keys to your guns, would’ve made life a lot easier.”

“You did a great job. I only came across a few undead, and what a stockpile of food you have.”

“I gathered as much as I could, buying a shit-load of food before things got really bad. After the… screaming… and other sounds died down, I went around to the apartments, gathering what I could. I kept myself well fed and hydrated. I was holding up, hanging in there… until one of them bit me. From there I started going downhill, until you came and saved me.”

“Well, we’re going to get you healthy, go out and look for any other survivors, then get the hell out of here.”

“There are no others, Jack,” Zaun said, quietly.

“There’s got to be, you can’t be the only one.”

“I checked. There’s no one else.”