Authors: Norman Dixon
“Ryan, the sun’s almost down. It’ll be
dark in less than an hour, gotta head back.”
“Patience, Bobby boy, relax. Less than
an hour is plenty of time.” Ryan dug into his rucksack and removed a small
black box. He held it high over his head. “See this, Bobby boy, this little
gadget cost me a week’s latrine duty.”
Ryan held the box in one hand and opened
a tiny door in the middle with a flick of his finger. At the center of the box
were several lights and buttons and a switch. “This, Bobby boy, is my gift to
you for being a good brother.”
“Shut up, Ryan, what is it?”
“I’m serious, Bobby, who else would help
me on the tests? Who else would listen to my crazy stories? So brother, Bobby,
brother o’ mine, this is my gift to you. This little do-daddy is a Ferreck
detonator. It says so on the bottom of the box." Ryan tapped the box with
a fingernail and flicked the switch. The box emitted a sharp tweet followed by
a low hum.
“Ryan, what did you just do?”
“I turned it on, jacky-jackass."
Ryan licked his lips. It was one of his tell-tale signs for mischief.
Bobby looked over the edge of the bluff.
The woman still clawed at the rocks. Her efforts were drawing the other
Creepers closer. There were about ten of them, and maybe more in the taller
brush. Bobby didn’t like the odds. Even though they were armed and had the high
vantage point, they were still very much exposed. It was careless to be out
this far, this late, in such a small group.
“They’re coming closer, Ryan." The
humming of the box made him tense. “Do you even know how that thing works?”
Ryan clicked his tongue on the roof of
his mouth. “You’re like a girl sometimes, Bobby. Yes, I know how it works.
While you were out throwing rocks over the barrier I was reading.”
The moans were loud and clear now as the
Creepers gathered at the foot of the bluff.
“One of them is going to figure out how
to get around, Ryan.”
“Easy, Bobby boy, that’s part of the
plan . . . see any stragglers?”
Bobby searched the field but it appeared
that all of the Creepers in the vicinity were gathered below them. “No, looks
clear.”
“Caught these guys feeding off deer when
I first came out. The deer get caught in the mud when it rains and well, you
know the rest, Bobby. Today we get some payback. We’re gonna blow up some
Creepers.”
Bobby’s unease lifted a little. It
always felt good to strike back at the Creepers. Though, as long as humans
existed, the Creepers numbers would never diminish no matter how many were
taken out. Still, it was one of the few satisfactions left to humanity.
“You ready?”
Bobby shifted on his feet. “I want to
get out of here.”
“Okay, okay, move back a bit. I don’t
know how big this boom is gonna be, Bobby boy. We gun’ fry us some Creeper ass,
yee-haw,” Ryan said doing his best Ol’ Randy impersonation. He had a knack for
capturing a voice.
Bobby backed up, stifling a laugh.
Ryan placed the box on the ground and
knelt down in front of it. He rubbed his hands together, smiled. He had been
planning this one for a long time. The explosives planted at the bottom of the
bluff cost him several cracks from Pastor Craven’s hand and almost a month’s
worth of latrine duty, but he deemed it all well worth it. He pressed the
button on top of the remote detonator.
“Bo—”
The explosion sent birds scattering from
the trees, and the air grew hot, a massive wall of dirt, blood and smoke shot
into the sky. The ground rippled and knocked the boys flat on their backs.
Chunks of Creeper twirled in the air.
Bobby stared into the sky then covered
his face as the body parts rained down.
As the rolling echoes of the blast faded
from the valley,
a new sound emerged:
Ryan’s laughter, gut shaking, balls out laughter, and
it was infectious. Bobby couldn’t hold back. He joined in, unable to control
the cackles that tickled his belly.
Bobby’s entire body tingled with
excitement. He was elated, much like countless boys throwing fireworks on hot
summer nights in a world without the horrors of the First War. But Ryan’s
display was ridiculous. The part of the bluff they stood on only moments ago
was gone, evaporated in the blast. Bits of dirt drifted on the stiff breeze.
The cloud towered over them a deep, dark orange and purple beast in the sun’s
last gasps. Night was not far off. They’d be toiling in the shit trenches for
sure this time . . . maybe worse.
“Bo-Bo-Bobby! Get it off! Get it off
me!" Ryan’s laughter turned to screams, terror-filled cries of pain.
Bobby jumped up and turned. The remnants
of the old woman lay on Ryan. Her purple dress was gone, blown away in the
blast. All that remained was her upper half,
a
ragged mess of guts, skin and muscle tissue trailed behind her like slime behind
a snail. Her hair smoked and parts of her scalp were still burning from the
heat of the explosion. The Creeper opened its charred mouth wide and bit down
on Ryan’s forearm. What few teeth the old woman had left made quick work of
Ryan’s skin, slid into the muscle tissue, found bone. She pulled her head back
and swallowed like a shark gulping down a seal. Ryan’s blood splattered her
face, steamy and hot.
Bobby reached for the revolver, found
nothing. He panicked. The Creeper came in for another bite.
Ryan did not cry because tears were the
Devil’s work and weakness would not be tolerated. Ryan fought back with one
good arm jammed under the Creeper’s jaw. The gnarled fingers knocked the hat
from Ryan’s head. He growled in its face, the youthfulness gone, replaced with
that of a much older adult with many winters under his belt. But his strength
waned and his arm slipped.
Bobby charged. He lowered his shoulder
and crashed into the old woman. They tumbled off Ryan, the vibrant youth and
the rotting meat. Bobby felt the old woman’s clammy face brush his exposed
stomach, a sharp sting. Flailing wildly,
he
managed to force the Creeper away. The haggard face released a blood curdling
moan. Drops of Ryan’s blood and thick, slimy saliva rolled down its chin. Its
dark eyes stared at something Bobby could not see, could not understand. Its
head rocked back.
The report from Ryan’s rifle silenced
the old woman forever. Her brains glistened in the last rays of the sun.
Bobby looked at Ryan. The black-haired
youth was propped on his injured arm but he held the carbine steady in the
other. Sweat, blood and dirt streaked his face.
Bobby’s heart raced. He checked his
stomach and pulled his windbreaker down. He’d been bitten, too.
The field dressing was the best Bobby
could manage with their meager supplies. He hoped he’d been quick enough to cut
off the blood flow with his shoelace, but he wasn’t sure.
“It’s numb, and itchy,” Ryan said. He
held up his swollen limb all blue and black for Bobby’s approval. “This’ll be a
scar to flaunt,” Ryan kidded, shaking his head.
“It’ll be okay." He spoke
carefully, trying everything in his power to keep the despair from his voice.
“No, it won’t. She bit me, Bobby. The
bitch-bastard-Creeper bit me. I’m done. Done . . .” Ryan
punched the ground in anger rather than giving in to grief with tears.
The moon poked its gleaming white face
in between the rolling clouds. Night had fallen. Other than the unreliable moon,
the only light offered them came from a small flashlight. Beyond a few feet,
darkness conquered all. Somewhere in that
impenetrable blackness,
the Creepers lurked. The
sound of the explosion surely drew their attention.
Bobby couldn’t answer Ryan;
couldn’t face him. He was dead already. No shoelace,
no matter how big, would be able to cut off the Fection on a stomach wound. The
Fection would come quick. Ryan, however, had a slim chance, but miles away from
the Settlement, and no adequate medical equipment, amputation would bring death
quicker, much quicker. But Bobby knew it would be a cleaner, sinless death.
This wasn’t the First War though, and they were far from soldiers—even with
their extensive training.
It was discovered, in the early stages
of the First War, that if caught quick enough, the Fection could be stopped
with amputation. No one knows the name of the first soldier to have the balls
to cut off his own arm. But once the word spread,
it
became mandatory for every soldier to carry a machete or a blade of equal size
capable of cutting through bone quickly. If they were bitten on a limb and
couldn’t do it themselves,
the man next to them
was expected to step up and do it for them. Bobby’s balls weren’t that big . .
. they didn’t even have hair on them yet.
He remembered the stories told in the
Settlement schoolhouse. The Folks talked of a place deep in the South of Texas
called the Alamo, where great men fought to the last, long before the world
went mad. They used that ancient battle as a comparison to the battle of Newark
in the First War.
Maps and photos of towering glass
buildings filled his head. The U.S Army took full control of the city of
Newark, New Jersey early in the war. The residents had long since left for the
death traps of the Turnpike and Parkway to flee the flood of Creepers moving on
the city. The Army lifted the bridges crossing the dirty Passaic River in an
attempt to slow the thousands of walking dead converging on their position. The
sludge coursing through the river was almost as foul the Creepers themselves…
almost.
The Army’s perimeter was well fortified
and their supplies were well stocked. Their machine guns tore into the
Creepers. The bodies of the dead fell into the river and drifted away in great
numbers. But they kept coming, relentless,
like
a swarm of wasps drawn to the scent of a fallen drone. The currents of the
polluted river kept the Creepers at bay, and those that made it across, awash
in the dirty brown water, were defeated by the steel retaining walls. Some,
though, made it to the banks, but they were cut down and kicked right back into
the filth.
Eventually the Creepers caught on and
adapted to the situation as more and more of their number arrived. It was
rumored they were ten thousand deep and for every Creeper killed another three
filled that void. They formed chains, rotting hand in rotting hand, making
ropes of dead flesh, drifting in the current like bait on a fisherman’s hook.
They reached the bridges and piled onto the massive steel framework. The Army
reduced the bridges to slag with their artillery but the Creepers kept coming.
They attached themselves to the molten steel, searing flesh, but they felt no
pain. After weeks of shelling,
rockets, and
airstrikes from attack helicopters, the Army had exhausted their supply of
propelled death. But the Creepers would not be denied.
On the other side of the city,
the Army conceded their border and pulled back as the
Creepers crashed the razor wire and barriers. The siege of Newark was nearing
its end. The majority of the soldiers made their last stand in the building on
1180 Raymond Street, the tallest building in the entire city. As the Creepers
drove further into the city,
the Army took many
hits. The number of bitten soldiers was catastrophic. They used the elevators
to transport the wounded to a field hospital near the roof.
Medical helicopters transported the
wounded out of the city, but as another week drifted away so, too, did the
medical evacuations. They were all alone and losing ground day by day. The
limbs were piled six feet high on the roofs, but even in the face of death the
newly limbless fought hard, raining fire on the growing hordes from the
windows.
Shortly after losing the lower levels of
the building,
all radio contact with the outside
went dark. New York had fallen. There would be no reinforcements. It was then,
faced with the inevitability of death and worse, the soldiers resorted to
insane tactics. They used the rotting limbs of the wounded to buy time. Tears
in their eyes,
the soldiers threw the limbs onto
the streets below. In their hearts they knew it was a futile effort at best,
but if it bought them just a few hours of precious life then it was worth it.
The Creepers’ hunger is an endless thing, and the limbs, mere snacks to them. Like
so many strongholds of humanity,
Newark was laid
to waste, bolstering the ranks of the army of the dead.
“Bobby, snap out of it.”
Bobby blinked the blurriness from his
eyes. The memory of the story dispelled by the cold night air and Ryan’s
snapping fingers.
“I did it again?”
“Yeah, it’s so cold." Ryan’s face
was as pale as clean hospital linen, his thin blue lips—a doctor’s errant pen
stroke. He cradled his injured arm in his lap.
Ryan had, at best, a day of pain-filled
humanity left.
But how long did he have left? Bobby’s
wound wasn’t deep, and his t-shirt alone stopped the tiny trickle of blood, but
it was enough. The Creeper broke skin. That’s all it took for the Fection to
spread. Spit mixed with blood and his heart did the rest, pumping the disease
through his veins slowly over a twenty four hour period. The thing was,
he didn’t know where in that day-long period his
final heartbeat would come, or
if he’d be one of
the exceptions to the rule. He could be one of the unlucky bastards that got
bit and languished for days before turning.