David Bernstein - Machines of the Dead

Now he understood the reason for the security. For the monitors and the guns. For the soundproofing. Apartment 3F was a narcotic storage house. A place where drugs were kept before being distributed or cut down.

Zaun closed his eyes. He was sweaty, shaking. His chest ached at how fast his heart was pounding. The little voice inside his head was mocking him. Telling him that he should have listened to it. That he was fucked, his ten years of sobriety was in jeopardy.

“Damn it.” Zaun slapped the locker in anger. If he’d stayed in 3R none of this would be happening. Why did he always find himself in such miserable places? Making so many mistakes? He’d made plenty throughout his life, but becoming a drug addict was by far the worst. He wouldn’t go down that road again. Couldn’t. Coming here was a bad idea. He could walk away. He was strong enough. He had a focused, determined mind. Just close the locker and leave; forget what he saw.

He’d been through so much. The time he spent in his apartment during the first days of the epidemic still haunted him. He’d been so alone. The images and sounds from those days, and what he had been through since that time, always reared their ugly heads. The screams outside his door. The dead bodies. The mutilated corpses. Watching the dead eat the living. All of this weighed heavily, like an anvil, on Zaun’s mind. The only way to cope was to keep busy so he didn’t have to think about what had happened. He hated sleeping, the dreams filled with the screams and pleas of the living. He’d needed something to take the edge off, but had been fighting against it since being locked up in his apartment on the 23rd floor. He shook his head. No, he knew better than to head down that road again.

Zaun spent his younger years filling his body with poison, becoming a prisoner to its call. He was a different person now. He’d gone through the recovery process, had received help, but as with all addicts, that dark part of him, that ominous shadow that followed him everywhere, was always with him to some degree. There were times after his recovery when the darkness would whisper to him. Tell him the tough times were easier to get through with the help of an old friend. Some days were harder than others, but he’d been able to keep the darkness at bay, even shove it deep down where it almost seemed to disappear.

He felt the shadow, the darkness, coming alive at seeing its salvation. At seeing months, maybe years, worth of magnificent nose candy. He and it could live here forever.

Zaun opened his eyes. His body felt weak, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He knew it was his mind battling against itself. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he shook his head and told himself he could beat this. He didn’t need any of his old friends. His breathing grew faster, nostrils flaring with each intake of air. “No,” he said, feeling the warmth of anger build in his chest. His toes and fingers tingled. “No.” He was strong now-had been trained in dealing with his addiction. Grabbing the locker door, he slammed it shut, the air seeming to shake around him. The darkness within lashed out at him, screaming at him to open the door. Zaun grinned, knowing the dark part of him was in pain. He enjoyed knowing it was suffering.

The darkness’ rage departed. Zaun felt a moment of relief before the voice whispered softly to him. It begged him to reconsider, merely to have a taste, something to ease the pain and get him through these horrendous times. Once he made it out of the city, he could relax, get his mind back to full strength and forget all about his little “slip up.”

Zaun’s grin became full blown, knowing how desperate the voice was. How pathetic. He wished he could kill it, make sure it never came back, but that could never be. He was an addict and always would be, having accepted the fact long ago.

During and after rehab, Zaun left his old associates behind. They weren’t his friends. He needed to start fresh; make new ones. He also wanted to keep the number low. He and Jack had hit it off after Jack moved into the building. The two had just clicked, enjoying the same sports teams, eateries, and movies. He had never told Jack about his past and not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted his new life to be just that, new. Part of accepting responsibility was acknowledging his problem and he always did, going to meetings when he needed to, but he kept his friends ignorant of his past. Much of it was shrouded in a haze and what he did remember was awful, but it was something he had to remember, never wanting to go there again. Blackouts, binges, waking up in places he had no idea where he was or how he arrived at them. He’d been in jail a number of times too. He hit rock bottom when he woke up naked in a dumpster in Hell’s Kitchen. He had finally decided he needed help and began the long arduous road to recovery.

Those were his life experiences and choices. They didn’t need to be shared with others, especially others who had never gone down his path. He didn’t think Jack would look at him differently, but he could never be sure. His past had told him anything was possible.

Now, he was on his own with no one to talk with, well, no one to talk with that would understand his situation. The people in his support group were most likely all dead or walking around the city looking for a bite of human flesh. For now, he’d have to rely on everything he’d learned, including his martial arts training which helped play a huge part in his recovery.

Martial arts were always something he had been interested in, having grown up watching Bruce Lee movies as well as the great Shaw Brother’s films on Saturday afternoons. His sponsor, a practicing martial artist, brought him to an Aikido class and from there it was full steam ahead. After receiving his black belt in Aikido, Zaun moved on to Closed Crane Kung Fu, Kali-Silat, and combat Tai Chi. Martial arts supplied him with focus and an inner strength that he had never known.

Zaun was a tough, strong-minded individual in a normal world where things could be controlled or managed, at least to some degree. The undead epidemic had shattered that. Things were turned upside down and inside out. Now he was in a place where he didn’t know if he’d make it to the next day.

With determination, he turned away from the coke-packed locker and left the room. He marched through the apartment, making it to the front door and stopped.

Maybe just a little taste before you go? The darkness whispered. Take some with you, just in case you need it.

Zaun turned around and went back to the locker. Without thinking, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys, not remembering taking them with him. He removed all the locks on the lockers, then opened the door to one. He felt the shadow burst with excitement again, screaming at him to take a sniff, just a sniff and all would be better.

“Ten years sober,” he said aloud, his words hitting the shadow like a sledgehammer. He felt it cry out. It was angry. Maybe he’d kept it at bay for too long and now it was its turn?

Didn’t people slip up? At least once? He hadn’t, at least not yet.

“You can beat this,” he told himself. “You did it before. You can do it again. Others are counting on you. You’re part of a team.”

Then just take some for later, the shadow suggested. Just in case. Better to have than to not have. It’ll keep you alert, focused.

“No. Fuck you, you fuck.” Zaun slammed the locker onto his hand, the pain mind-clearing. Sobering.

In a controlled rage, he began pulling the kilos from the locker, creating a pile on the floor. From there he carried the drugs into the living room. When he was finished, he went back and did the same for the next locker until all the lockers were empty and all the cocaine was in the living room. He raised one of the gates, then opened the window and began tossing the kilos out into the street.