William Rose - The Dead & Dying

By the time the infection, or whatever the hell it is, hit Harrisburg there wasn’t anything that could really be done. It spread through our town like the clap at a whorehouse, I tell ya. One minute it’s just another dead-end hole in the wall and the next all Hell’s breaking loose.

I remember looking back over my shoulder at the Pit Stop, watching the flames licking at the night sky like the tongues of hungry demons, the smell of wood and burning rubber; I watched from a distance as the pumps finally caught ablaze. A big orange fireball shot up so high the tops of the pines out back started burning as well and even from afar I was buffeted by this wind so hot that it nearly took my breath. A few seconds earlier, I’d heard tires screeching and turned just in time to see a pickup plow into the station. There was just enough time for me to start recognizing some of the people piled into the bed of the truck before they were all engulfed by the explosion.

But even then one of them was still coming for me. He was all lit up, covered from head to toe in flames and leaving burning footprints in his wake. If he felt any pain as the skin and muscle crackled and dripping fat hissed like frying bacon, he didn’t give any signs. Just kept staggering down the middle of the road. Like something from one of those movies I used to love so much. Only this wasn’t some stunt man in a special suit covered with flammable jelly. It wasn’t even really a he: this human shaped torch was all that was left of what had used to be Bob Hightower .

Me and ’ole Bob had grown up together. We played little league and went fishing and shared most of the same classes when we finally hit junior high; the first sip of beer I ever had was filched from Old Man Hightower’s cooler… the first breast I ever saw was from peeking through the keyhole as his sister undressed for the night. But if he coulda made it to me, he wouldn’t have been reaching those fiery arms around me for a brotherly hug. I knew this as surely as I knew that no living man could be so engulfed by fire and live longer than a minute or so.

And, at that moment, I knew things would never be the same again.

Shit, I’m cold. So fucking cold it feels like I should be able to see my breath. At the same time, though, there’s this sheen of sweat on my chest and my hair is so damp it’s practically plastered to my skull. And that damn gash just keeps right on oozing.

I’m almost out of clothes to use and flies have started buzzing around the ones I’ve thrown to the side like it’s a flippin’ buffet or something. When I switched out the t-shirt for the sweater I’ve got pressed against me now, I stole a little peek at the wound. Can’t believe I’d actually almost convinced myself that maybe it wasn’t really so bad. That maybe it was just a flesh wound that was bleeding like hell.

But looking into that bite was like gazing into a canyon of meat. Crags of torn muscle jutted out from the walls of the chasm and I could see glints of bone down there, like the fossil of some extinct beast preserved for all eternity. And at the bottom of the canyon there was this crimson lake that seemed to throb and pulse with subterranean forces.

I saw a fish leap out of that pool, it’s scales flashing brilliant silver in the mid-day sun before splashing back into the thick, red liquid. And, nestled between a clump of gristle and a severed artery, a lizard poked its head out as if making sure no predators were circling overhead before committing itself to basking on the canyon walls.

And then I felt like I was falling, the wind buffeting my hair and whistling in my ears as the bottom of the chasm grew closer with each passing second. There was no fear, no moments of regret or wishing my life had turned out differently: I saw myself reflected in the lake of blood below and was perfectly content to simply watch as my scarlet twin grew ever larger.

When I hit bottom there was a blinding flash of pain that dissolved the world into an infinite field of white. I heard screaming, the sound distant and hollow like it was reaching me from the far end of a cavern or tunnel.

The scream grew louder and I began to feel a burning in my throat; at the same time I realized that the voice calling out in such agony and torment was my own the blank whiteness shattered like an exploding light bulb. These tiny shards of reality pierced the wound in my side, brought everything back into sharp focus real quick like.

But for a moment, delirium and substance must’ve bled into one another: and in that fraction of a second I thought I saw Josie standing across the room, her entire body glowing like a lantern in the fog, as beautiful and serene as in those final moments of her life. Maybe even more so.

“Josie”, I croaked as I stretched my hand toward her, “Josie, baby, I l…. ”

But then I saw him as well: the boy. I saw the flesh peeling away from his small round face, hints of bone and teeth where lips should have been. And his eyes, glaring at me, challenging me, hating me with every ounce of his being.

“I… I’m sorry.” Tears spill from the corners of my eyes and I wrap my arms around my stomach as if I can somehow hold back the tide of blood flowing from my body. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Funny thing is, if anyone was around to ask, I couldn’t really say if I’m talkin’ to Josie… or the boy.

When I first met Carl, I was traveling alone. Somehow, the idea had gotten into my head that I should try to make my way across the country, all the way to what used to be California. Maybe I was lured by thoughts of palm trees and beaches; maybe there was still some mythical appeal to this land by the ocean. Or maybe, it was more practical.

Winters are bad enough when you have to strip clothes off the rotters you’ve killed just to have one extra layer between your skin and the bite of the wind. You think about lighting a fire, of rubbing your hands over the crackling flames and deeply inhaling an aroma that would bring back memories of camping and bubbling marshmallows impaled on a stick. But you know better. A campfire would draw them in from miles around; they would slowly tighten the circle until there was no hope of escape. So you shiver and try to ignore the stench wafting up from the sweatshirt you just pulled over your head: you cope and survive.

But, if that wasn’t bad enough, the winter also works against you in other ways. Once the temperature dips below freezing, freshies stave off deterioration much longer. Without decomp breaking down muscle tissue, they can stay fast and cagey almost indefinitely; and even the rotters’ slow march toward mulch is put on hold.

Some argue that you can hear them better as they crunch through the icy crust of the snow; and that, if it piles up deeply enough, it slows down the freshies enough to give you more of a fighting chance. But these idiots have apparently never experienced what an Illinois winter can do to the human body.

You see, the cold can devour you as quickly as one of those damn zombies. It starts with the soft parts of your face, your nose and cheeks, the earlobes and lips…. At first, it almost feels as if your skin is tightening, as if it were trying to pull away from the danger and hide deep within the warm safety of the skull. Undaunted, the wind continues its attack with invisible teeth and soon you begin to feel needles of pain, like tiny pieces of flesh are being stripped away. The pain quickly grows into a burning sensation and you flirt with the idea of rubbing snow across your skin to find a modicum of comfort. After a while, however, it recedes and there is only numbness; at this point, you know these parts of your face have been totally devoured and no longer exist. The cycle then starts over then as the cold begins to feast on your toes and fingers, its hunger insatiable….