The Undead That Saved Christmas Vol. 2 (19 page)

The next box I opened had old report cards in it. I glanced over the A’s and the C’s and the record that me and my sister had attended school. I wonder - will it matter if future generations find that what grade I got in social studies?

My mother is sitting in the corner, Santa bobble head in her hands, watching the head laugh. She has a half smile on her lips and a faraway look in her eyes. My father is looking out the window. My sister is just sitting in the corner with her hands in her lap, looking down.

We are all in the same room. We are all separate.

10.

When night comes, I look outside again and see the same tableau as earlier. I wonder how long our food will hold out... will rescue come before it runs out? Will rescue come at all?

It’s Christmas but it doesn’t feel like it.

We stand in our own little worlds experiencing this Christmas in a new way; alone, lost in our own thoughts, our own emotions. Maybe my mother is still thinking about that little kid that was so fascinated by a simple bobble head Santa, my sister focused on the boyfriends she will never get to kiss, my father on the loss of the home and life he, and all of us, had lost forever.

And then we all look up and our eyes meet. And I think I see the beginning of a smile on more than one set of lips in that attic.

Christmas will still come, at least this one last time. Maybe this is the end of life as we know it. But maybe some of that life will follow us.

Story Art Cover

By Jess Smart Smiley

www.Jess-Smiley.com

Dedication

To my grandma, Margaret

Author Bio

Kevin Walsh
 has published (or about to publish) short stories in anthologies by Rainstorm Press, KnightWatch Press, PillHill Press, Library of the Living Dead and Coscom Entertainment. He is working on a zombie novel titled Genocide X, which will be available as a free ebook. Kevin invites zombie fans to take a look at the novel's webpage 
http://genocidexzombienovel.blogspot.com/
 He is also working on a horror themed website, collaboratively written by aspiring horror novelists, called Riding the Razor's Edge, which will be launched in September of this year.

Daddy’s Angel

By Kevin Walsh

Two female figures walked onto the desolate street with red rucksacks dangled over their shoulders. The eldest of the two companions surveyed the street with a keen eye, trying to identify the presence of the undead. The brilliance of the snow hurt the eyes and made for a cold journey. A sombre, bitter wind buffeted both of their faces as bits of snowdrift melted against their skin. The street yielded no apparent evidence that the undead had been there for the past week. The younger female idled as she stared back at the home from which they emerged.

“C’mon, Susie, let’s go,” Veronica stated as the wind gusted her face once again.

“My name’s Angel,” she replied indignantly.

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Your name’s Susie. C’mon we have to go; Christmas is only a few days away.”

The little girl’s eyes moistened and her voice cracked a little. “Daddy always called me his little Angel.”

Veronica sighed and spared a glance down the barren, empty street. She knew the young girl was still trying to cope with the death of her father, who had been killed by another survivor. When the zombie apocalypse hit people scrambled in search of food and other survival implements. It was 6 years since the first outbreak, but society had completely disintegrated within a few months. Veronica was grateful that the undead’s mobility was hindered significantly during the winter months.

Veronica noticed that there were two types of living people left in the world. There were the Survivors who tried to avoid contact with adversaries both living and undead. Then there were the Scavengers. Scavengers killed anyone who got in their way. They would kill someone for their goods without batting an eyelash. Her husband—Susie’s father—had been killed by a Scavenger. Veronica burdened a deep hatred for Scavengers for what they had done to her family. It was tough trying to teach Susie about death when the city was littered with the undead.

Veronica usually gave whatever her daughter wanted because she wasn’t sure when their last day might be. They could end up dying tomorrow at the hands of the undead, so she wanted to make sure that her daughter lived as harmoniously as possibly.

That’s why they were about to leave the house. Veronica thought it would be a good idea to have Christmas every year to bring some normalcy to her life. Every year they set out to look for gifts for one another, which would be tossed into the sacks they carried. Whenever her daughter wanted something, she received what she wanted.
Even the really strange stuff.

Veronica gave in. “Okay Angel, let’s go before the weather gets too harsh.”

“Okay, but what about Charlie?” Angel inquired just as they heard the baying of a dog from their home. The dog barked a few times, then quieted down.

“He’s fine. Charlie has lots of food; now let’s get a move on before we freeze our butts out here.”

“Okay,” Angel said with a pleasing smile.

They both floundered through the sleet and snow and disappeared down the street.

* * *

A stout man watched the two girls disappear behind snow encumbered shrubbery. His unruly facial hair added to his homily façade. The begrimed hair on his scalp fluttered in the cold wind and littered the brush of his brow with white flakes. He hocked and spat into the sea of white. Tattered remains of a jacket hung on his shoulders, resembling something from an archaic war film. Under his fingernails the filth was dark in contrast to the purple hue his fingertips had adopted from the weather.

He waited for them to leave before he entered. There were no difficulties with killing another living being, but he couldn’t risk an encounter while he was unarmed, and he knew that the older girl had a pistol.

He crept along the side of the house and found the window, withdrawing the crowbar with anticipation. After several minutes of shouting vulgar obscenities towards it, he managed to open it. Not a sound was made as he landed quietly on the kitchen floor.

The house was nicely furnished and well maintained for a post-apocalyptic structure. He moved as inconspicuously as a shadow into the living room.

What shocked him the most about this home was the monolithic Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The decorations hung loosely on its fake limbs and were intertwined with tinsel.

The Scavenger laughed boisterously. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.”

He noticed that there wasn’t an angel placed on top of the tree.

“Stupid bastards couldn’t even get an angel.”

He pondered the thought of setting the tree ablaze once he got what he needed. A moment later, he found himself staring at the picture frames on the walls. Not realizing how attractive Veronica was until he saw a picture of her next to a man that he assumed was her late husband. Thinking about Veronica’s buxom figure left a grin on his face, but departed with the thought considering that the woman was armed and dangerous. He chastised his own cowardice and defiled the picture by spitting on the man’s face.

He descended the stairwell into the basements and found a large stockade of canned food and bottled water. The incandescent bulbs that hung aloft projected dark silhouettes in the basement. The ashen walls of the cinder brick interior showcased the room’s subterranean atmosphere.

Tepid liquid dribbled down his filthy chin as he poured water onto his face from one of the bottles. He splashed a bit on his face to wash away some of the dirt that seemed ingrained to his skin. He nonchalantly tossed the bottle aside and continued his excursion. What he was looking for was another firearm. What he found was a few boxes of 9mm rounds and .357 bullets, but he couldn’t find the pistols that parented these lead children. He thought that if he were able to find a firearm of any sort, then maybe he could overtake Veronica, but he wouldn’t dare without any firepower. Women were a lot more dangerous than men during the end of the world. The causation for this theory was that women feared both the undead and the violent sexual advances from men who hadn’t seen a woman in months. He had watched plenty of men shot down before they could even say ‘hi’ to women like Veronica.

He didn’t spend too much time looking over some of the other tools within the basement. While climbing the staircase; he noted the various picture frames containing a large man. The late husband was bald with a thick beard that hedged along the jawline, and tapered at the chin. Broad shoulders and a stalwart countenance completed the man’s menacing appearance.

The Scavenger scoffed. “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll make sure I treat your woman real nice…maybe put that daughter of yours on a leash and leave her outside. Never liked kids anyways.”

He stood on the landing at the top of the stairs where a hallway broke his routes to either the left or right. To the right he saw a door, with a sign nailed to the wood reading ‘Charlie’. The sound of barking arrested his attention towards his left. A confused expression crossed his face once he saw that this door had a sign that also read ‘Charlie’.

He whistled sympathetically for the canine’s pathetic whining. “C’mon Charlie, want to go play catch?”

He propped open the door and the hinges squealed from rust. He looked into the room and saw the canine. He recognized that the dog must have been a mix between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd. The hair on the dog’s back stuck up and it bared its sharp incisors. It snarled fiercely and viscous lines of spittle dripped from its fangs.

“Whoa. Calm down there, Charlie” The man cooed, trying to quiet down the caged animal.

He took a few tentative steps back and looked for anything of value. As he backed up, he noticed something odd about the sign nailed to the door. The sign was larger than he had originally thought, with half of the sign covered under a dense blanket of dust. He wiped away the dust with the palm of his hand, which revealed the rest of the stenciling.

The sign read “Charlie’s food”.

Before he could piece everything together, he was heaved off his feet from something crashing into him. He landed onto the wooden floor with an audible thud and the wind was ripped from his lungs. He leaned up and locked his eyes upon the undead behemoth standing in the doorway.

The zombie’s necrotic flesh was a grey hue, similar to concrete. Rotten fissures were dotted across the undead menace’s burley frame. An oppressive whiff of carrion stained the air, as thick as a brume. The familiar goatee was coated in a crimson wash from dried, encrusted blood. A field of pitch white bone was revealed under the flaps of splayed scalp. Its cavernous mouth showed a plethora of jagged, ivory-white teeth that gnashed at the empty air.

While the Scavenger was on the ground he couldn’t help but notice how clean this zombie appeared. Most zombies had either maggots or flies in the orifices, but this undead specimen was well maintained. This anomaly was backed up by the zombie’s clean teeth.

The creature descended upon the Scavenger while emitting a hoarse, baneful groan. He kicked the zombie in the face and it stumbled back. The man scuttled backwards along the floor, trying to put some distance between him and the soulless beast. His back hit an obstruction and he propped himself against it, responsively feeling the obstruction behind him with his hand. His fingers poked through the bars of the animal cage. He heard a deep throated growl and felt the sharp fangs of the Rottweiler crushing his fingers. The bones snapped and he shrieked with a deep anguish that would wake the dead. Blood spired from his fingertips and the bones shattered under the sheer intensity of the bite.

Before he could react, he felt the jagged teeth of the zombie sink into the tender flesh of his neck. The zombie jerked his head and chewed on a mouthful of meat and tendons. Blood shot out of his throat like a geyser and besmirched the clothes on both of them. His squeals were denounced to gurgled mutterings as blood seeped from his lips

* * *

Veronica and Angel arrived home to a pulpy mess of blood and gore in ‘Charlie’s food’ room. Veronica looked at her late husband gnaw into the flank of the poor hapless victim. Her pity evolved to hatred once she figured that the man was a Scavenger and she grimaced, slightly appeased.

Angel turned away with tears in her eyes. Veronica comforted her daughter and hushed her to a light whimper.

Angel sobbed lightly “Is daddy hungry again?”

Veronica replied, “Yes sweetie, he’s just getting a little hungry. Why don’t you go downstairs and wrap your gift, I’m going to clean Charlie.”

Veronica understood that the psychological implications of what she was doing with her late husband could affect Angel. But Veronica was a single mother and she needed to give her only child the world before the world would be taken away from her. It took a while to accustom one’s self with the idea of keeping a zombie within the household, but it was like having a really dumb dog. Every week she would harness and bind Charlie’s limbs against his bed and she would clean away the rotten flesh from his body. Usually by splashing a diluted bleach compound onto the flesh, this prevented the zombie from completely rotting away in front of its own daughter. She also sound proofed the interior of the house so that the zombie’s moan wouldn’t attract more to their home. She knew eventually she should have to find a way to cut Charlie’s vocal chords, but she feared accidentally severing his spinal cord, which would leave him inert.