Timothy Long - Beyond the Barriers

The ghouls—they were something that should not exist. Zombies were unnatural enough to begin with. But men who ate the dead and became the monsters I had seen simply should not be.

How did the zombie virus start? The next morning, I planned to ask questions. I rose and put my jeans on, having opted to sleep in boxers and a t-shirt. The building seemed well insulated, but it was cold nonetheless, after coming out of the sleeping bag that had been like a warm cocoon.

I slipped on my boots, laced them up halfway, and then wrapped the laces around and tied them in front. Then I left the sleeping area and wandered. It was dark, but some of the flashlights had been left hanging down near the ground to illuminate a path. There were port-a-potties set up along the far right wall, which made it a long walk, but it kept the stench far away from the sleeping area. I passed countless bodies huddled in tents and on cots. Some moved, as people did what they had done for years when the lights went down. When was the last time I had been with a woman? There was Cheryl, a friend who took pity on me and took me to bed about six months after Allison left. Sex felt out of place with her, and, in the end, we agreed it was a bad idea.

We drifted apart until, after a few months, we barely greeted each other at the gym.

A sentry looked me up and down, and decided I wasn’t a zombie sneaking in to terrorize the store. I moved along an aisle, finding metal walls built up to hold in other supplies. A whole locker that was fifteen or so feet square contained an armory of weapons. They all looked army issue, and with the amount of fighting and chaos that had gone on at the outset of the ‘war,’ it was easy to guess that the stuff was probably left lying around on bodies or in abandoned vehicles. I saw a few M-16s and planned to ask about getting one, if the need arose. It was probably a good idea to slip that suggestion in Thomas’s ear in a few days, once he got used to seeing my face.

I walked to an enclosed area that looked as if it may have been a set of offices at one time. There were some padded mats, dummies, and punching bags in the corners. In the center of the floor was a large, black cushioned bag with the sand or water-type base. I walked to it and pushed. It didn’t budge, and I guessed they had some sort of pad underneath it so the thing would be harder to slide across the floor.

I took a tentative punch at it, and then another. I looked behind me, then closed the door so I could work out in peace and quiet. I slipped my shirt off in the cold, stretched my joints and tendons. I had tried doing basics in the cabin, but halfheartedly at best. If I were going to be any use to these people, I would need to loosen up and get the old moves back.

I hit the bag with a quick set of punches, moved past, and then spun around and launched a series of kicks, low and high. I worked a style I had learned from a guy I met in Thailand years ago. I leapt up and planted knees in the pad. Then I came down and slipped boxing into my impromptu workout.

I worked a form in the air—something like a kata but with fast whip-like strikes. Within a few attempts, I felt like I hadn’t forgotten as much as I thought I had. Then I worked the forms against the bag, and even found a rubber knife to incorporate into the session. I had always been good with knives—nasty things with razor-sharp edges that I could use as an extension of my arm.

I nearly knocked the bag over with a roundhouse kick, but it wobbled back to the surface of the floor with a heavy thump. Flowing from the kick into a straight punch, and then a series of close-in elbow strikes as I passed, I heard a noise behind me and came to a stop. My breath rumbled in and out like a locomotive.

I spun around, and a shape slipped out of the shadows of the room near the door. It stepped into the dull light from the hanging flashlights, and I saw that it was a woman. She must have been close to six foot, and had black hair that hung around her face in a bob. She tucked one side behind an ear as she walked toward me and the bag. Her features were fine—sharp little nose and pixie eyes that were hard around the edges. I would put her age a few years younger than mine, but she had a look of weariness that betrayed her years.

“Fighter, huh,” she said, as if commenting on the rain. Her body was slim and athletic. She had sculpted arms that hung out of a tank top, and I could see a vein running over the top of her biceps. Not a bodybuilder’s frame; she was just in good shape. I smiled at her as she walked past me toward a dummy in the corner. I let my eyes wander down her tight sweats, and couldn’t help but keep the smile on my face.

“Imprinting it in your memory?” She looked over her shoulder. I noticed she had sparring gloves on, and I wondered if she was good with them.

I didn’t know what to say, so I decided to just keep my mouth shut.

“That’s okay. This is a different world than the one you left. The rules have changed, you know.”

“How so?”

“All that petty bullshit—it’s gone. If you like someone or something, then you just take it. Like the goddamn ghouls; they think they can take whatever they like, and we won’t do anything about it.”

“They’re driven by a disease. They aren’t rational,” I pondered out loud.

“Piss on rational. They’re animals, and they deserve to burn. Each and every one of them.”

I didn’t press her on that. She grabbed a dummy and dragged it by the shoulders, after tipping it on its side. I moved to help, but she hauled it out and stood it up so that it popped up like a jack in the box, then she swung forward. Before it could right itself, she punched it right in the throat. The model recoiled, and she launched into a vicious assault that saw the life-size man fall back under a barrage of punches and kicks that impressed me.

I went back to work on my hunk of plastic, but every once in a while I felt her eyes on me, just as she surely felt mine on her. She moved with grace and speed, her hands darting in to strike with their sides as well as knuckles and fists. She pulled out a couple of interesting moves that had her whipping her hand around like a punch, but at the last minute twisting her hand so her first two knuckles pointed toward the floor, palm up, striking with the back of her hand.

I was tired. Sweat poured off my forehead and spread down my bare chest. It had been months since I worked out this hard. Certainly living alone in the woods, hunting, climbing, walking, working on the cabin, all of these things kept me fit to some extent, but there was nothing like a good thirty-minute balls-to-the-wall workout. I stepped away and looked around. There was an old water fountain on the wall, and I went to it and hit the button. Nothing came out, and I smiled at my action. This wasn’t a superstore anymore; this was a powerless hulk of a building that provided nothing more than protection and warmth.

She tugged a bag out of a corner and unzipped it. She pulled out a bottle of water, pulled the top off, and drank deeply. After what seemed like an eternity waiting for her to finish, so I could ask her where to get some, she flipped the top closed and tossed me the bottle.

I caught it, and, after staring in her eyes, which seemed to hold a mocking glint, I popped the lid and drank. The water had a slight metallic flavor, but it was wonderful, so I sucked down some more.

“How long’s it been?” She walked toward me.

“Pardon?” I sputtered water.

“Since you worked out like that. You look like you know the moves, but you seem unsure of some.”

“About four or five months now. While I was hiding out in the woods, I didn’t have much call for punching stuff.”

“Yeah, I saw you get here. That was some arrival,” she said, as she took back the water bottle. After chugging the rest, she tossed the bottle at her bag.