Pathogen - Chapter 15

November is not an ideal month to visit the beach. Chiefly, it’s too cold, and the dark gray clouds barely visible against the black night sky threatened to snow. Stones skittered underfoot, this was not a warm, sandy beach even in the summer. Most of the locals preferred to lounge in the tepid waters of the rivers inland throughout the summer. The only redeeming quality of this beach was the smell of the salt spray, and the soothing sound of crashing surf.

Steve found the sea air noisome, and the breaking waves overwhelming. He paused, already far behind his friends, and looked out over the ocean. Imagining walking into the frigid salt water made him shiver through his thick bomber jacket. Scruffy probably would have enjoyed himself here, he thought. The dog loved the water, and it didn’t seem to matter much what the time of year was.

With a sigh, Steve pulled himself away from the siren call of the sea. Shaking his head, he tried to picture a sunny outcome for him, but nothing came to mind. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind anymore that he had the flu, it had all become clear that he was turning into a zombie. He’d seen the change take place countless times before in movies and video games, but he still had trouble imagining it for himself. It was impossible to imagine the shift where he’d change from happy-go-lucky Steve into a walking corpse that hungered for the warm flesh of his friends and loved ones. With a start, Steve realised that he wasn’t really happy-go-lucky anymore. He wondered if that meant it was already starting.

Already he was having trouble walking. It took a lot of effort to keep up the pace he’d set for himself. His feet dragged behind him one after another in time with the rolling thunder of the breaking surf. A bemused smile played at his harried face as he realised he was walking like a zombie now. He wouldn’t blame anybody if they mistook him for one now.

Gazing ahead, Steve caught sight of his friends again. They’d come to a stop at a rocky outcropping adjacent to the breakwater. He wondered to himself if they’d paused for his benefit, or just to take a break before tackling the treacherous crossing.

Breakwater Point owes its less than inspired name to the breakwater which connects the island to the mainland. A typical breakwater is made of piled rocks, and is paved with a road to serve as a causeway. Nothing could be so simple, however, and the municipality of Fog City had never paved the breakwater. Instead, they had allowed the jumbled heap of enormous boulders to serve as a makeshift pedestrian crossing. Years ago, before the lighthouse had been abandoned thanks to the widespread use of radar in commercial shipping, the island’s keeper had elected to row out to the mainland from his private dock on the opposite side of the landing. Now that the four friends were facing their crossing, they saw the wisdom in that.

The stones jutted out of the beach and eclipsed the surface of the water by several feet. Covered in a thick mat of slick seaweed, the constant spray of the sea promised for a slick crossing. The November chill even threatened ice, making the crossing all the more dangerous. The government had posted a sign reading, “NO TRESPASSING,” and the four friends could easily guess why.

“I’m not so sure this is such a good idea,” Aaron was the first to voice their concerns.

Turning to face Aaron, Grace glowered at him, “Do you mean to tell me you’ve got a better idea? Have you been holding out on us all along?”

Aaron hung his head. “No,” he told his shoes.

Cliff turned to Steve and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this,” he told him.

“I know,” Steve nodded, “But I may as well see you guys off from the other side as here.”

Seeing his friend was determined, Cliff dropped the subject and moved on to more practical things. “How are we getting the supplies across?”

“I’ll carry them,” Aaron volunteered.

Grace eyed the scrawny boy, “Are you sure you’re up for the task, slugger?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aaron mock apologised, “Did you want to carry them?”

Grace held up her hands in protest and turned away. She and Cliff each needed a free hand to carry their guns with, and she could tell Steve was going to have his hands full just with the crossing. If anybody could do it, it would have to be Aaron.

Turning to face Breakwater Point, Grace estimated the trek would be several hundred metres. Several hundred metres of treacherous terrain and subfreezing temperatures. With a sigh, she pulled herself up onto the first rock. Aaron followed close behind her, basket of goods in tow.

Before climbing up himself, Cliff turned to regard Stee again. “Are you sure you can do this?” he asked.

Steve eyed the jagged rocks, the crashing surf, and the icy water below. “Sure,” he lied, “Slow and steady wins the race, right?”

Cliff nodded and set off , using the but of the shotgun as a sort of walking stick. Steve thought that was incredibly unsafe, but didn’t point it out. He was more concerned with surviving the crossing than anything else at the moment.

Lurching ahead, Steve took hold of the rock and attempted to hoist himself up. His muscles seemed to be working for him in fits and starts. At parts of his ascent he found it simple enough to pull himself up, but sometimes for a moment his arms would tremble and shake, and twice he almost fell back to the beach. Thus far he had mastered slow, now he just needed to work on steady.

Finally pulling himself onto the rock, Steve surveyed the crossing. Grace and Aaron had already practically left him behind, but Cliff was near at hand. Steve knew he was waiting to see if he could make the crossing unassisted.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Cliff asked again.

Steve shook the question off, “What, do you want to hold my hand or something?”

“Would it help?”

“No,” Steve shook his head, “If I fell, I’d probably just take you with me.”

Seeing the logic in that, Cliff turned to resume his crossing. He was careful not to get too far ahead of Steve in case he needed help. Steve took great care in coercing his uncooperative limbs into working for him. A single misstep and he’d likely wind up in the ocean. If he was having this much trouble crawling across the stones, he couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to swim to shore. Drowning seemed more likely than breaching the surface.

Far ahead already, Aaron and Grace were clambering over the boulders. The wind had grown fierce, and the crashing waves had them practically soaked through already.

“It’s cold,” Aaron complained.

Grace didn’t have patience for him. “You live in Canada,” she informed him, “The cold has no influence on you. Ice flows through your veins.”

“Wouldn’t I be colder if I had ice in me?” he asked, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Grace didn’t answer him and simply kept pushing forward. Glumly, Aaron followed after her. He was convinced that he’d lose an ear, or maybe even his nose, to frostbite. If he’d known they’d be doing this when he went out for chips, he would’ve brought a hat or something.

Meanwhile, much further back, Steve was beginning to see how impossible the task before him was. His fingers were frozen through from gripping the cold, wet stones and he’d only managed to make it a quarter of the way across. Numbness crept throughout his body, and he wondered if it was owing to the cold, or the disease that was killing him.

Frustration washed over him. He was bitter that he was dying, and jealous that his friends were at the doorstep of salvation. They would keep on living while his life was tragically cut short. There would be no dignity in his death, simply zombification, followed by murder or the destruction of his brain. There were so many things he wanted to do with his life, but due to random chance he’d never be able to accomplish any of them. Tears of bitter anger and frustration welled in his eyes as he furiously tried to blink them away.

Cliff turned to check on him and noticed his distress from several metres away. “Are you okay?” he shouted to be heard.

“I’m fine,” Steve explained, not willing to look his friend in the eye, “It’s just the wind in my face.”

“What?” Cliff shouted over the howling wind and thunderous waves, “I can’t hear you!”

Steve realised the futility of shouting into the ground to be heard, and lurched to his feet. He screamed back at his friend, “I’m fine!”

A tremendous wave crashed over them both, and Cliff lost sight of Steve. When the icy curtain passed over him, he realised Steve wasn’t on the breakwater anymore. Steve had vanished from sight completely.

Cliff turned to shout over his shoulder for help. Grace and Aaron stopped to see what the commotion was and caught sight of Cliff hurrying over the rocks. He’d thrown caution to the wind and was practically running across the treacherous path.

Coming to the point where his friend had fallen, Cliff cast about looking for him. Directly below, the stone he was standing on was itself resting on another stone barely above the surface. Steve’s unmoving body was below.

Wedging the shotgun between two rocks, Cliff climbed down the face of the boulder Steve had fallen from. The way down was even more treacherous than the crossing thus far, but Cliff had to help his friend. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, Cliff found the rocky shelf barely large enough to hold them both. He turned to inspect his friend’s injuries. The fall wasn’t terribly far, but Steve must have thrown his arms out to break his fall. Instead, the fall had broken his arm. Steve’s forearm was bent at an unruly angle, and Cliff noted with some surprise that the bone had not pierced the skin.

The fall had rendered him senseless, so Cliff helped him to his feet. “Wake up, buddy,” he cooed, “We’re going to get you through this.”

Steve’s eyes opened slowly, and at once Cliff knew his friend was gone. In place of the smile behind his eyes, Cliff could only see a burning, ravenous hunger. Steve snarled and seized a hold of his former friend with his one working arm. Together they wrestled on the icy shelf of stone. Cliff knew it was the end for Steve, and threw all his weight into wrenching him off balance. Steve was thrown headfirst into the tempestuous sea, and Cliff was rewarded for his efforts by falling heavily on his rear. Cliff’s own legs fell into the sea up to his knee, and these he pulled ashore as if scalded.

Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Cliff observed the sea. He was searching for any sign of his friend. Minutes passed, and none had come to him. Shaking his head, he fought to banish the memory of Steve’s last moments from his mind. He tried to remember his friend as the smart mouthed kid that he’d known in life, and not the monster he’d become in death.

Turning his back on his friend’s watery grave, Cliff started the climb back up to the crossing. It had been a long night, but he felt like it was just getting started.

Pathogen - Chapter 14

Vernon was already underway when Cliff and Aaron caught up to the car. Aaron ran around the back of the car to get to the front passenger seat while Cliff struggled to get into the back. Steve had left their supplies right in his leg room. Slamming the door shut in the face of the zombies inching ever closer, Cliff knew he could resolve his cramped quarters a bit later.

Thus awkwardly situated, Grace threw Vernon into gear and sped off into the fog. “Well, that was a party and a half,” she remarked as she drove ahead.

“Tell me about it,” Aaron said, oblivious to his driver’s sarcasm, “Did you see me out there? I was all ‘BLAM! BLAM!’ and the zombies were dropping like flies!”

“Didn’t you say you were out of bullets?” Grace asked, “What are you going to do now, tough guy?” Aaron fell silent, deflated. Grace asked another question, this time directed at Steve, “Will my bullets fit in his gun?”

“If you manage to squeeze them in there, and I’m not sure how you would,” Steve started to explain, “Best case scenario, the gun jams. Worst case scenario, it blows up in your hands.”

“What a gyp,” Aaron complained, “In video games, all you have to do is walk over a dead guy’s gun, or a box of bullets. It doesn’t matter what kind they are, they all fit into your guns.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Steve laid into Aaron with sarcasm so thick he could cut it with a knife, “This is actually a video game. Golly gee, maybe we should get your old pal Steve an extra life before he runs out of continues.”

The car fell silent, save for the humming of the engine. Everyone tried at once to look away. Steve stared morosely out the window. He’d upset himself with his own callow remark. With a sigh, he wished he was just in a video game. Then at least he could slam a few more quarters into the machine and everything would be okay. As it was, the timer was ticking down and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

“Steve,” Cliff broke the silence, “We’ll find a way to help you.”

“There’s no cure for what I’ve got,” Steve murmured, “Don’t you watch the movies?”

The car was silent a few more moments before Cliff broached, “I think I’ve got a couple shells left.”

Turning to regard his friend, Steve saw that Cliff was deathly serious. From the look of hurt on his face, Steve could tell that the implication pained him greatly. Steve couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

“Lighten up, would you?” Steve begged between fits of laughter. Laughing hurt, which made the situation funnier to him, “You don’t have to go all Old Yeller on me. I’ll see you guys off at Breakwater Point, then probably head back to the mainland or something.”

Having a goal comforted Steve somewhat, even if the destination was going to depress the hell out of him. Maybe he’d be so far along at that point that it wouldn’t matter to him any more.

“Who’s Old Yeller?” Aaron asked.

Grace took her eyes off the road for only a second to give her friend a look that screamed, “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know your American cinema history?” A second was exactly long enough for disaster to ensue. Through the fog, the outline of a zombie appeared. Noticing it too late to do anything about it, Grace still attempted to swerve out of the way. Vernon slammed into the body, dragging it under the car. The front right tire blew as it rolled over the body and the axle snapped as the car slammed hard into the ground. Now spinning out of control, Vernon came to a screaming halt when its side ploughed into a telephone pole.

When the dust settled, Steve was the first to speak up. “Did anybody else feel that, or was it just me?” Steve shouted over the ringing in his ears.

Grace held her head where it had bounced off the now shattered window. “Why didn’t the airbag go off?” she complained.

“Really?” Aaron spoke up, “That’s what you take exception to?”

Cliff wrenched open his door and crawled outside to get a better look. A quick glance told him that Vernon was out of commission. The passenger side had practically wrapped itself around the pole. Reaching back inside, Cliff wrestled with the cart of supplies and helped Steve out.

Steve dusted himself off and surveyed the scene. “Wow,” he remarked, “You guys are lucky to be alive.”

“What about you?” Cliff asked.

“It probably would’ve been better if I died in the crash,” Steve shrugged.

Aaron had managed to get his door open now, and was helping Grace climb across the front. Her door was obstructed by the telephone pole. Cliff looked up at the askew pole. They were very fortunate not to have downed any lines.

“Now what?” Grace asked, coughing.

“I think we better book it,” Cliff declared, “Those zombies are probably still on our heels.”

“Good plan,” Aaron agreed, “Let’s keep following the road here.”

“Hold up,” Steve interrupted as he turned to get his bearings, “Weren’t the zombies going down this road before?”

“What do you mean?” Aaron asked.

“Before we started running, back when we were hiding out,” Steve recalled, “They were going down this way. I bet they heard the crash and are coming back around now.”

“What should we do?” Cliff asked.

“We’re going to Breakwater Point, right?” Steve asked as he pointed off to the side, “The water’s that way.”

Turning to see where his friend was pointing, Cliff thought for a moment. “We should head that way,” he decided, “We should only be a few blocks from the ocean.”

Grace had retrieved the rifle from the car and was reloading it from the bullets in her pocket when she chimed in, “Do you think we have enough supplies?”

Aaron  hefted the grocery cart. “I think we’re good on food,” he assessed, “But I know I’d be happier if I had more bullets.”

“I don’t think we have time,” Cliff shook his head, “Right now we’re sandwiched between two groups of zombies, and our car is busted. We need to get out of here while we still can.”

The four friends exchanged a look with each other. Together they nodded. Although they had reservations about the plan, it was the only thing that made sense at the moment. Cliff, Aaron, and Grace set off towards the ocean while Steve lingered a moment by the car.

“Hey, Cliff,” he called out.

Cliff stopped to turn. “What?” he asked.

Steve reached into the car and pulled Cliff’s shotgun out from the backseat. “You’ve got to keep a better eye on your stuff,” he chuckled.

Pathogen - Chapter 13

The zombies were staggering towards the house with a dark purpose. It would only be a matter of time before they had the house surrounded, and the four friends were already feeling trapped.

“We have to get out of here,” Aaron insisted.

Steve had to brace his arm against the wall to help get to his feet. Unsteadily, he reached out to take the cart of provisions. He’d broken out into a sweat and his skin had taken on a gray hue.

Cliff noticed his friend’s unwellness. “Are you going to be okay to move?” he asked with genuine concern.

Meeting Cliff’s gaze with a glossy eyed stare, Steve asked, “Does it look like I have much of a choice?”

No more words were exchanged, because there wasn’t any time to waste. Together, the four friends ran down the stairs, hoping to escape out the back before the house was surrounded by zombies. Aaron was the first to make it to the first floor, and as he leapt from the bottom step into the kitchen he could hear glass shattering. The walking dead were making a mess of the picture window and were fighting against each other to clamber into the living room.

The gang didn’t look back and ran straight for the sliding glass door in the kitchen. The blinds were pulled across the window, and Aaron neglected to look through them before he threw the door wide. To his dismay, a zombie was standing on the other side and lunged for him. Aaron tried to slam the door shut, but the dead man’s arms were already through. They wrestled with each other, Aaron trying to get the door closed still while the zombie fought to get inside.

“Get out of the way!” Cliff bellowed as he ran for the door.

Aaron took a look over his shoulder and saw his friend running straight for him. He scrambled out of his friend’s path. Without Aaron to hold the door shut, the zombie succeeded in pushing the door wide enough to get inside. In that moment, Cliff leapt straight for the zombie. With an outstretched hand, he seized the dead man by the face and allowed his momentum, and their combined weight, to carry them into the brick patio. The zombie’s head split like an overripe melon.

Rushing through the open door, Grace, Aaron, and Steve ran into the night air while Cliff picked himself up. They could see zombies shambling towards them in the moonlight, coming around either side of the house.

Cliff spotted the shotgun he’d foolishly left outside, propped up against the corner of the house. A zombie was between him and it, and Cliff fumbled through his pockets looking for his baton. Aaron noticed Cliff’s situation and stepped up to help. He whipped the handgun from his pants, took careful aim at the zombie’s forehead, and turned the gun sideways for dramatic effect. Pulling the trigger, he was rewarded with a dry clicking noise and panic.

“What the fuck?” he asked as he backed away from the approaching zombie, “Why won’t it shoot this time?”

“You have to chamber the round,” Steve explained.

“Chamber the what?” Aaron couldn’t think clearly.

“There’s no bullet in the gun, they’re all in the magazine.”

Aaron was completely lost, “But I put the bullets in the gun,” he insisted.

Cliff had finally retrieved his baton and had it unfolded with a flick of the wrist. He set upon the approaching zombie, swinging in terrifying but deliberate arcs. While he was protecting his friends’ safety, Steve snatched away Aaron’s gun.

“Why did you want this thing so badly,” Steve shouted at his friend while he pulled back the slide to allow a bullet to leave the magazine and enter the receiver, “If you can’t even fucking use it?”

With one final swing, Cliff cracked the zombie’s skull. It fell heavily to the ground, and Cliff wasted no time stepping over it. He snatched up the shotgun and stepped back to be huddle in with his friends.

Grace was watching Steve lose his temper at Aaron, but at least he returned the firearm. “Steve,” she asked uncharacteristically meekly, “Do you want my rifle? I think you’d know how to use it better than I could.”

“No thanks, I don’t think I could hold it steady right now. I’d never be able to hit anything,” he explained as he turned around, “Oh shit! Look out!”

Steve was pointing at something behind Grace, and she whirled around to see what it was. She wasn’t terribly surprised to see the zombie a few feet away and raised her rifle. The barrel was practically touching the zombie’s head when she pulled the trigger. The back of the skull blew out and the man fell over dead once more. Remembering how Mrs. Withers had operated the gun earlier, Grace pulled the bolt back and chambered a fresh round.

“You’re a natural,” Steve complimented her.

“We really don’t have time for this,” Cliff interrupted, “We have to get out of here.”

Aaron was the first to start running, and he took off diagonally across the yard. “This way,” he hollered over his shoulder to urge his friends to follow him.

He was hoping to lure the zombies away from the car. They could then run around the neighbour’s house and double back to the street. The Withers’ property was surrounded by a white picket fence a scant three feet high, which he hoped might impede the zombies a little. However, he knew he couldn’t put much faith in it. For all he knew, they’d just plow into the thing.

Being the first to arrive at the fence, Aaron placed one hand onto the fence as he ran. Swinging his legs up, he vaulted over the obstacle. Grace and Cliff were only a few paces behind and stepped over the fence when they arrived. Aaron had already taken off running across the neighbour’s yard when Steve arrived at the fence. It was a tremendous effort for him to wheel the cart over the grass, but now he wasn’t sure if he could get their supplies over the fence.

The zombies were fast closing in while Steve struggled to overcome the obstacle. He groaned as he hefted, and grunted as he heaved, but he just couldn’t lift the basket more than a few inches off the ground. Illness had made him weak, and he despaired. The lead zombie was only a few paces behind him now, and Steve felt melancholy as he realised he was going to let his friends down.

Cliff had noticed his dire straits, however, and had rushed back to his rescue. “Duck,” he ordered as he levelled the shotgun at the nearest zombie.

Not needing to be told twice, Steve immediately dropped to the ground and wisely covered his ears. A split second after he was clear, a deafening report and a brilliant flash erupted from the barrel of the shotgun. Scattered pellets travelled at an incredible velocity and caught the first zombie full in the chest. The sheer force of the assault carried the zombie, throwing it bodily to the ground a few feet away. It wasn’t dead, but Cliff had bought Steve a few precious moments.

Steve climbed to his feet and found Cliff waiting for him with an outstretched hand. He took up the offered hand, and allowed his friend to help him over the fence. Cliff then reached over the fence again for their supplies. He dragged them over the fence with a grunt, and set them down in front of Steve.

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve suggested as he took up the cart once more.

Nodding, Cliff couldn’t agree more. Together they ran to catch up with Aaron and Grace, who had just rounded the corner of the neighbour’s house.

Aaron was running between the side of the neighbour’s house and a taller privacy fence with Grace following a few feet behind. His path was totally clear until a zombie staggered around the corner to him. Without breaking his stride, he raised the gun. Pushing the barrel into the zombie’s face, he pulled the trigger. The gunshot was louder than years of video games had led him to believe, but the zombie fell over dead all the same. Beaming, Aaron was happy that the gun finally had worked for him.

Together he and Grace ran into the street. Vernon was across the street and to their left, and there wasn’t a single zombie between them and it. However, there were still a number of zombies milling around the Withers’ porch. They’d heard the gunshot a moment ago and were beginning to shamble towards Aaron and Grace.

Putting on a burst of speed, Grace fished her keys out of her coat pocket. “Hold them off while I get the car running,” she called out to Aaron.

With a nod, Aaron agreed to the plan. While Grace crossed the street at an angle to meet the car, he ran down the sidewalk to stop in front of the Withers’ house. Planting his feet firmly against the pavement, he raised the gun to take aim at the nearest zombie. Unsure of the range he could be accurate to, he waited for the zombies to get closer.

Steve and Cliff were running now, following the path between house and fence that Aaron and Grace had used. Burdened by the heavy cart, it wasn’t long before Steve fell behind Cliff again. Gritting his teeth, he redoubled his efforts. Keeping up took everything he had, but Steve had resolved not to be a burden to his friends.

As noble as Steve’s ambitions were, his body screamed in protest. The moment his feet hit the pavement of the street, Steve knew he’d pushed himself too hard. With blurred vision and an overpowering sensation of dizziness he struggled to keep his heading. It was impossible, and barely a moment later Steve stumbled, tripped, then fell. Although he didn’t feel anything when he hit the ground, Steve was dimly aware that it should have really hurt. Another wave of nausea washed over him as his stomach heaved. He tasted the toxic flavour of bile and saw the yellowish brown liquid escaping him.

Lifting his head was a struggle, but Steve fought hard to get a look at his surroundings. He was having trouble focusing, but he was sure that he could see Cliff and Aaron standing together in front of the Withers’ house, guns at the ready. Cliff’s shotgun’s muzzle erupted in a brilliant flash, and Steve heard a deafening report that to him sounded hundreds of kilometres distant. He couldn’t see Grace anywhere, and fought to turn his head the other way. A lone figure was moving towards him, and at first he thought this must be his missing friend. A moment later the truth dawned on him: it was a zombie arriving late to the party.

Placing his palms flat on the asphalt beneath his shoulders, Steve tried to push himself up. His arms trembled and shook, and the dizziness became a hundred times worse. Slumping to the ground in defeat, Steve tried to call for help. No words would come to him. Inwardly cursing, he tried again to rise to his feet, but once more he ended in failure. His gaze was fixed on the approaching zombie. Steve knew it was death coming to claim him, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

His only job had been to carry their food, but Steve knew he was going to let his friends down. The very notion infuriated him, and his fury found a voice. With a roar, he tried once more to gain his footing. Pushing against the road with everything he had, Steve could only lift himself above the ground a few inches. His arms buckled underneath his weight, but he had succeeded in pulling his right foot beneath him. With a push, he lurched unsteadily to his feet. Incredibly dizzy, he couldn’t help but stumble a few paces before finding his footing.

Whirling around to face the zombie, Steve was only mildly surprised to find its outstretched hands a few inches away. In as fluid a movement as he could muster, Steve yanked from his pants the knife he’d traded with Aaron for his gun, thrusting it at the oncoming zombie. In a moment, it was buried to the handle beneath the zombie’s chin. The blade had lodged itself in the brain and the zombie immediately became deadweight. Steve made no effort to retrieve his weapon, for he knew he didn’t have it in him to fight anymore.

Miraculously, the cart of provisions had managed to remain upright. Steve took up the handle and dragged it behind him, slowly working his way to Vernon.

Aaron looked over at the approaching figure. For a moment, he mistook Steve for a zombie, and raised his gun at him. It was an easy mistake to make, with Steve’s ashen countenance and harried gait. Seeing the cart he was pulling, Aaron realised his mistake and hoped he wouldn’t have to tell Steve he almost shot him.

Steve had a much easier time rolling the cart on the pavement, which he supposed was its intended purpose. It wasn’t long before he arrived at Vernon. Wrenching the back door open, he crawled inside and struggled to pull the cart in behind him.

While Steve struggled to secure their supplies, Grace was wrestling with the starter once more. She had tried a dozen times already to get the engine to turn over, but Vernon just wasn’t having it. Burying her head in her arms against the steering wheel, Grace admitted defeat.

“Car trouble?” Steve piped up.

“It won’t fucking start,” Grace explained.

“It definitely won’t start if you don’t keep trying,” Steve pointed out.

“What do you know?” she spat.

“I almost died a minute ago,” Steve shrugged, “Nobody noticed, and they probably wouldn’t have until they found the zombie eating my face. But I kept trying.”

Grace asked in surprise, “You almost died?”

“Yup,” Steve nodded, “And I’m definitely going to if you don’t get this car running.”

Although she wasn’t facing him, Steve could still feel Grace’s eyes on him. He had to admit that she had a very potent glare. Still, he had goaded her into trying again, and together they hoped she could get Vernon running.

Outside, the boys had amassed a sizeable collection of zombie corpses. Aaron aimed once more at the nearest zombie, double checked to make sure he had the shot lined up, and pulled the trigger. The anticlimax of a dry click startled him.

“Steve,” he shouted, “Not working!”

“Out of bullets,” Steve diagnosed. Fortunately, he hadn’t closed the door he’d climbed through yet, or else the two of them couldn’t converse in this fashion.

“What do I do?” Aaron called back for directions as the zombies still approached him.

“Hit them with your gun,” Steve suggested.

“I’d like to,” Aaron agreed as he stepped away from the zombies, “But I’m out of bullets!”

The nearest zombie was only a few paces away when Cliff stepped up. Demonstrating Steve’s point, he slammed the stock of the shotgun into the zombie’s temple. Its skull caved in and the zombie fell over.

“Oh,” Aaron remarked sheepishly, “I understand now.”

Vernon chose that moment to spring into action. After countless attempts with the faulty starter, the engine finally caught and turned over. Grace signalled their imminent departure with two swift blasts of the horn. Aaron and Cliff looked up to see their chariot awaiting. They bolted towards the car without another word.

Pathogen - Chapter 12

In a state of near panic, Aaron rushed down the stairs. He didn’t think the zombies knew they were here, but he wanted to make sure everyone knew they were out there. Almost tripping down the stairs, Aaron stumbled into the kitchen.

Cliff was stuffing the bags of provisions into the basket when Aaron burst onto the scene. It was plain for Cliff to see the look of panic on Aaron’s face. “Are they out there?” he asked with a grimace.

“Yeah,” Aaron nodded, “Where’s Grace and Steve?”

With a tilt of his head, Cliff indicated the door their friends had gone through. Not wasting a second, Aaron immediately pushed his way into the garage. He found Grace and Steve unloading the fridge.

“Want a beer?” Steve offered with a grin.

“Zombies,” Aaron hissed.

The smile vanished from Steve’s face. “Where?” he asked.

“They’re out on the street,” Aaron explained, “Lots of them.”

Grace had a pair of beer cans in her hands, which she set down on the workbench. She wondered aloud, “Can we take them?”

“No way, man,” Aaron shook his head to the negative, “There’s way too many out there.”

Chewing on her lip, Grace considered their situation. If the zombies were on the street, it wouldn’t be safe to run to the car because they’d have to cross the street to get there. She didn’t like it, but they’d have to wait for the zombies to pass by. She said as much as Cliff stepped into the garage.

“What if they don’t pass by?” he interjected, “We should come up with a plan, just in case.”

Steve spoke up first, “Running away seems like our best bet.”

“We take Vernon and hightail it out of here,” Grace agreed, “But how are we going to get to the car with all those freaks out there?”

Aaron withdrew the gun from his pants, “Shoot ‘em in the head. Between my gun, your rifle, and Cliff’s shotgun, we could fight our way to the car.”

Steve looked over to Cliff. “Where is the shotgun,” he wondered aloud.

Startled, Cliff had to think about that. Looking back, he remembered setting it against the house when he gave Aaron a boost upstairs. He’d completely forgotten about it, and felt foolish for leaving a gun out in the garden.

“It’s outside,” he muttered with downcast eyes.

An audible clap was heard as Grace buried her face in her palm. “You’re really, really bad at that,” she pointed out, “First you left the frying pan in the truck surrounded by zombies, and now your gun’s out with them when we need it in here with us.”

“Hey now,” Cliff retrieved the telescopic baton from his back pocket, “I’ve still got this with me.”

Aaron shook his head before announcing, “We’re boned.”

“We are not boned,” Steve rounded on him, “We’re just in a tight scrape is all. We’ll hunker down here and wait out the zombies. Then we’ll take our supplies to Vernon and drive out to Breakwater Point. We’ll be safe there, someone will come along to rescue us, and everything’s going to be fine.”

“You think so?” Grace snapped, “Who do you think is going to rescue us? What if they’re all zombies and we’re just going to be on the run for the rest of our lives until we’re murdered by flesh eating creeps?”

Steve opened his mouth to answer, but stopped himself short. He thought he heard something and ushered everyone to silence. Everyone stood quietly, muscles poised to do something even though they didn’t know what. A moment passed before Steve heard the noise again. It was a footstep, the noise of flesh scraping against the asphalt of the driveway outside. It was several seconds before they heard it again, coming towards them.

“Game over, man,” Aaron whispered.

“Shh,” Grace shushed him, even though his voice was barely audible.

The unsteady footsteps outside stopped at the garage door. All eyes and ears were trained on the door, waiting for something to happen. A full minute passed before they heard the footsteps again, this time wandering around the side of the house.

Cliff let out his pent up breath. “We can’t stay here,” he reasoned, “There’s no way out of this room if they get in.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Grace asked, still whispering in case the zombie without heard them.

“Upstairs,” Cliff explained, “We can get a better look from there, and they’ll have a harder time seeing us through the windows. Plus, there’s only one way up, and we can run out a window on any side of the house if we need to.”

Aaron thought about that plan, “I’m not crazy about jumping out a window.”

“I’m not saying we have to jump,” Cliff argued, “Just that we can if we need to.”

“I’m with the plan,” Steve weighed in, “Let’s gather up our supplies and haul them upstairs. Quietly, if you please.”

Together they packed up what they had. Grace stuffed the three bullets she’d found into her pocket while Steve snatched up the wastebasket he’d put the medicine in. Seeing the bottled water in the still opened fridge, Cliff reached down to grab a couple. Aaron crept out into the kitchen and tried to hoist the basket of groceries, mindful that the wheels might make a sound. It was too heavy for him, however. Cliff emerged from the garage presently and gave him a hand. Together they brought the heavy basket upstairs while Steve followed behind with the wastebasket. Grace was the last one up the stairs, ears pricked for a sign of danger outside.

No sign of danger was found as the gang summitted the stairs. Aaron and Grace took up positions at the window, trying to stay out of sight but still keep an eye on the street. Meanwhile, Steve and Cliff busied themselves by transferring the medicines from the wastebasket into the rolling basket.

Cliff held up the toothpaste against his scrutinising gaze, “Is this all you were able to find?”

Steve nodded, “Yeah, there wasn’t much useful here.”

“Still, no toothbrushes?” Cliff continued, “You thought it was a good idea to take the toothpaste, but what are we going to brush with?”

“There was a toothbrush,” Steve explained, “I just didn’t figure you’d want a secondhand one that you had to share with your buddies.”

“Good point,” Cliff admitted, “I guess we can brush with our fingers or something.”

“How can you guys talk about brushing your teeth when there are zombies out there?” Grace interrupted.

“Yeah,” Aaron joined in, “It’s the apocalypse now, you don’t need to brush anymore. It’s like a party out there.”

“What I meant,” Grace explained with a sidelong glance at Aaron, “Is that there are more important things to worry about at the moment.”

“How’s it look out there?” Cliff asked.

Outside the fog had lifted ever so slightly. Aaron’s earlier estimate of dozens was accurate. The number of walking dead outside was pushing close to a hundred. They were still passing through the street in a disorganised mob, but there was no telling when they’d disperse completely.

“Pretty bad,” Aaron assessed.

Grace nodded, “No kidding.”

Another wave of nausea passed over Steve. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he announced.

“Really?” Grace questioned, “Now’s the time you want to go to the bathroom? Didn’t you just go?”

Steve didn’t answer her. He simply stood up and rushed to the bathroom, closing the door shut behind him. A moment passed, and the friends heard him heaving into the toilet. Awkwardly, the three friends listened to him be sick for a minute or so.

“Do you guys think Steve’s going to be okay?” Aaron asked.

“I’m pretty sure ‘puke your guts out’ is just an expression,” Cliff answered.

“He’s sick,” Aaron shook his head, “What if he becomes a zombie?”

“What?” Cliff asked, “You’re crazy, man. Steve’s no zombie.”

“Not right now,” Aaron admitted, “But what if he becomes one?”

Cliff argued, “But people don’t just become zombies. You have to get bit by one.”

“Then what about the first zombie?” Aaron pointed out, “If you can only catch it by being bit, then where’d the first one come from? Or that kid in the DepartMart. He was sick, then next thing you know he’s chewing on his mom’s face.”

“Fuck,” Grace neatly summarised.

Cliff shook his head, “No way. Steve’s going to be fine.”

“You betcha,” Steve said from the doorway.

His friends practically jumped at the sound of his voice. They weren’t expecting him to be standing there. All of them were ashamed that they’d been talking about their friend behind his back. Steve didn’t make a big deal about it though. He just walked up to the window to have a look outside. The zombies were still milling around outside, but there didn’t seem to be as many of them out there.

Stepping back to the wall opposite the window, Steve slid down to sit against it. He’d heard his friends talking about how his illness might be related to the zombies, and the notion scared the hell out of him. Desperately, he tried to convince himself it was just the flu making him ill, but now he wasn’t so sure. It seemed so much more likely he’d become one of those monsters outside.

In the next room, he heard the zombie snarl. Norm Withers was in a bit of a mood, it seemed. But at least Mrs. Withers had stopped crying. He tried not to think that he might be like that zombie tied to a chair when a thought popped into his head.

“Hey,” he addressed his friends, “How do you suppose Mrs. Withers got Mr. Withers tied up?”

“With rope,” Aaron answered, misunderstanding the question, “I saw him in there myself. Tied up with rope.”

Steve fought the urge to call Aaron a moron, but instead rephrased his question, “How was she able to do it? A zombie wouldn’t sit still and just let you do that.”

Cliff considered that a moment, “Norm wasn’t a zombie when she tied him up.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Steve nodded, “But why tie him up?”

“Why does anybody tie somebody up in the bedroom?” Grace answered with another question.

“Gross,” Aaron chimed in.

“There was a zombie outside,” Cliff recalled, “It was dead. Again, I mean. Maybe Norm tangled with it and got bit?”

“Then Mrs. Withers, who either heard about the epidemic already or else has seen a bad horror movie before, decides to tie up her husband just to be safe,” Steve postulated.

“Maybe he was sick, she took out the zombie, then she put two and two together and tied him up,” Cliff suggested.

“I think you guys are discounting the bondage angle,” Grace noted.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter,” Steve said, resting his head back against the wall.

“We could ask Mrs. Withers,” Cliff suggested.

Grace shook her head, “I don’t think she’ll be very forthcoming with us.”

Aaron was looking out the window, and had seen that there were almost no zombies on the street at the moment. “I think we’re almost in the clear here,” he declared, “That wasn’t so bad.”

As if the universe was in protest to Aaron tempting fate so, a loud crash was heard from the Withers’ bedroom, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Grace almost leapt out of her skin, but she was the closest so she rushed over to investigate. She threw the door wide to survey the scene.

Norm had managed to topple over the chair, which must have broken when he fell. Freed of his restraints, he had set himself upon consuming the closest living creature: his own wife. Grace found him there clambering on top of Mrs. Withers, teeth snapping away. She shut the door so she didn’t have to watch, but still she heard it all. Mrs. Withers scream must have been heard for blocks around.

Aaron looked out the window. Outside the mob of zombies had changed its course. No longer did they idly shamble about, but now they lurched towards the house with purpose. Their moaning and snarling could be heard even through the shut window.

“Fuck.”

Pathogen - Chapter 11

“Well,” Aaron announced as he rubbed his hands, sticky from the pilfered apple, on his jeans, “That’s that then.”

“That’s pretty insensitive,” Grace glared daggers at her friend.

Aaron shrugged in response. The old bat had shot at him, and he didn’t feel he owed anyone an apology. Casting about, he looked to see if there was more food nearby. Getting shot at had given him a powerful hunger.

“We should get to work,” Steve decided, yet still thought his friend was being callous, “I’ll look around for some medicine.”

“What, are you a doctor all of a sudden?” Grace couldn’t help asking, “What makes you qualified for that?”

“I’m certified to give first aid,” Steve explained.

“You took a six hour course that work paid for,” Grace argued hotly.

Steve shrugged, “It’s not like I’m looking for tools to do heart surgery or anything. Just a first aid kit and ibuprofen or something.”

Grace threw her hands up in frustration. Everyone was getting on her nerves today. She wandered away without another word. Telling herself she was going to see if there were more bullets for the rifle she’d wrestled from Mrs. Withers, she had to admit she just needed to cool off.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Steve announced.

“That’s a good place to find a first aid kit,” Cliff nodded.

“That’s also true,” Steve agreed.

Not wanting to think about that, Cliff retreated to the kitchen. Aaron was standing in front of the open fridge, half leaning on the door and rubbing his belly. He was a scrawny kid, but he sure could put away the food. Cliff realised they were probably going to need a lot of food to keep their appetites in check.

“The non-perishables are probably in the cupboard,” Cliff suggested.

Aaron wasn’t really paying attention, preoccupied with mentally building a sandwich. The old lady had a well stocked fridge, but he couldn’t find a fancy mustard. The sandwich would have to wait.

“I wonder how much food we need,” Cliff pondered aloud as he scanned the shelves in the cupboard, “I read somewhere that when you’re preparing for a disaster, you should have three cans of food per day.”

“Really?” Aaron asked, “I could probably eat that in a sitting.”

Cliff sighed, because he knew it was most likely true. He wondered how Aaron would react to rationing. Poorly, he decided. They would need a lot of food or else they’d have to listen to Aaron complain until the moment they were rescued. Cliff walked away to find something to put their provisions in, and Aaron stepped up to look in the cupboards for a snack.

“Fuck yeah,” he practically whooped.

“What?” Cliff whirled around, curious about what had excited him so.

“Beans,” Aaron explained, holding a mason jar full of green and yellow vegetables, “My grandmother used to make her own preserves. If these are half as good as hers, we’ve got it made.”

Cliff tried to imagine the four of them cooped up in a hiding hole, eating beans all day. Grace would probably kick them out before the first day was out. Shaking his head with a laugh, he walked away. There was a closet near the front door, and Cliff was sure he could find something to carry their supplies in there. He was not disappointed. The Withers were the sort of people who brought their own bags shopping with them. They had their pick of canvas totes and reusable plastic, as well as a basket on wheels which was intended to be pulled behind the owner.

“You know,” Aaron had approached Cliff and was presently fishing a bean pod out of his jar, “One of us should keep a lookout. In case the zombies come strolling up the street.”

Cliff tried to think how useful a lookout would be this foggy night. Then he considered how useful Aaron would be as they looked for supplies. With their luck, he’d be eating as fast as he was stockpiling.

“You’re right,” Cliff nodded, “Why don’t you go upstairs and keep an eye on things?”

Aaron nodded as he chewed, and wandered up the stairs. He remembered there was a window in the hallway that overlooked the front street, so he took up a position there. Leaning against the window frame, he happily munched on some more beans as he watched the street.

Not far from Aaron’s perch, Steve was washing his hands. A wave of nausea had passed over him as he’d entered the bathroom, but he fought every urge to retch up his dinner. Steve decided he must be coming down with the flu, and his body sure had picked a fine time for it. Regarding himself in the mirror over the sink, Steve realised he looked like hell. His skin had an awful grayish pallor, and he had broken out into a sweat that had plastered his hair to his face.

Splashing some cool water on his face, Steve hoped he’d be well enough to travel when it was time to leave. It’d be awkward if his friends were forced to leave him behind with only a psychotic septuagenarian and her zombie husband for company. Shaking his head, he banished the thought and popped open the medicine cabinet.

Dozens of bottles lined the shelves in the tiny medicine cabinet. He knew he couldn’t carry them all in his arms, so he pulled the bag out of the wastebasket beneath the sink and picked up the bin. The bag upended, spilling its contents on the floor. Steve looked at the balled up tissues and cotton swabs. The bathroom had an austere cleanliness about it before he’d upset it, and he felt guilty for ruining the old lady’s housekeeping. With a sigh, he bent down and cleaned up his mess.

Returning to the cabinet, he realised that most of the medicines were useless to him. Vitamins, estrogen, and denture polish stared back at him. He snatched up the bag again, and started tossing the rejected bottles within. They didn’t need iron supplements, or multivitamins. He discarded a cheap razor and two well worn toothbrushes.

By the time he was done rejecting medicines, Steve realised he had precious little left in the cabinet. All that remained for medicine was a half empty bottle of aspirin and a jar of iodine. He shuddered as he thought about the time he skinned his knee as a child playing at his grandmothers. She’d seen fit to clean that most minor injury with iodine. Since that day, Steve knew he’d rather have a root canal without anaesthesia instead of using iodine again.

Gritting his teeth, Steve placed the jar of iodine in the empty wastebasket. He hoped he wouldn’t need it. Pilfering the rest of the contents of the medicine cabinet, Steve made off with the aspirin, some toothpaste without brushes, and floss. Stepping into the hall with his basket of stolen medicines, Steve happened upon Aaron standing watch at the window.

“Keeping a lookout?” he asked. Aaron nodded and munched on another bean. “What did you find there?” Steve asked as he gestured with his head at the jar of beans.

“Home canned beans,” Aaron explained, “I think the old bat grew them herself.”

“Oh man, are there more?” Steve asked excitedly, “My grandmother used to make her own preserves, you know. I haven’t had them in forever.”

“Mine too,” Aaron beamed, “And yeah, there’s more in the kitchen.”

Hurrying down the stairs, Steve had to make sure there would be homegrown produce in their rations. He found Cliff in the kitchen, filling bag after bag with canned goods. Cliff looked up as Steve walked in.

“I heard there were beans,” Steve announced.

Cliff nodded, “Sure are. Looks like the old lady canned her own beans, pickles, and beets.”

Steve’s jaw dropped, “She’s got beets too? I’m glad we chose this house.”

“You mean the house where the old lady tried to kill us?”

“It was worth it.”

Cliff rolled his eyes and returned to his work. The old woman had a little bit of everything in her cupboards, from her home produce to canned soup, to seafood, to fruits. His only complaint was that all of this canned food was really heavy. Still, most of it could go in the drag along basket, and they’d only have to hoof it as far as the car.

Still without a first aid kit, Steve decided to keep looking. Thinking of where he might find one, Steve decided to check the garage. If Norm did a lot of work there, he might have one lying around. If not, they might even have one in the car. There was a door off the kitchen that Steve guessed might lead to the garage. Pushing his way through, he was not disappointed.

Naturally, the dominant feature in the garage was the car, and old american sedan of a model unknown to Steve. Opposite the car was a workbench, with a bar fridge nestled beneath it. Along the wall adjacent to the kitchen stood a shelf full of storage bins and household chemicals. On the opposite corner, a locker was tucked away.

Grace was in the garage, rummaging around a work bench. She picked up a tin can full of nails, shook it as she looked inside and made a face.

“Whatcha looking for?” Steve asked.

“Bullets,” she said without looking up.

Steve thought for a moment. “I don’t think people keep them loose in a can in their garage,” he thought aloud, “And if they did, I’m also pretty sure you don’t want to shake them.”

“Why not?” Grace asked petulantly.

“They could go off,” Steve explained, “Blow your hand clean off, that.”

Gingerly, Grace set the can of inert nails on the bench. “Really?” she asked, turning white as a ghost.

Steve shrugged, “Maybe. I don’t really know.” Grace punched Steve in the shoulder, but he didn’t mind terribly. “Did you check in the gun locker?”

“The what?”

“The gun locker,” Steve explained, “By Canadian law you have to keep your firearms under lock and key. Usually people keep their ammo with their guns.”

“Huh,” Grace replied, betraying her ignorance of firearm ownership, “So what does a gun locker look like?”

Steve gestured to the locked cabinet in the corner of the garage, near where she’d been rummaging. It was a steel locker, solid on all sides except the front, which was a grate that also served as a door. A cheap combination lock kept the cabinet closed.

Grace inspected the cabinet. “Yup, that’s a gun locker,” she declared.

Together she and Steve walked up to the locker to inspect it. Upon closer observation, the locker was completely empty save for a small box of .308 rounds. Steve reached up to the lock and gave it a tug, but it was secure.

“I guess we’re going to have to get the combo from Mrs. Withers,” Grace sighed.

“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffed, “Do you really think she’s going to tell you the combination so that we can rob her?”

Grace shrugged, “I can make her talk.”

“What, are you going to put the screws to her?” Steve asked, horrified, “Breaking her face wasn’t bad enough?”

“She tried to shoot Aaron,” Grace argued as her face flushed, suddenly ashamed at the implication.

“Still, I think it’d be easier to just clip the lock,” Steve assessed.

Walking back to the workbench, Steve set the wastebasket of pharmaceuticals down. A vast arsenal of tools were laid out on a corkboard above the bench. Each had its particular place, outlined in white paint. Spotting a pair of bolt cutters, Steve hefted them from their hook and returned to the locker. A small exertion later, the lock snapped. Reaching out, Steve pulled the lock free and opened the cabinet.

Grace snatched up the box and enthusiasm turned to disappointment as she inspected the contents. “Three bullets?” she whined, “That’s hardly anything.”

“That’s three zombies you don’t have to worry about anymore,” Steve corrected, “And I’m sure Mrs. Withers will attest that the stock makes a good bludgeon.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Grace sighed despondently.

Remembering why he’d come to the garage, Steve set about looking for a first aid kit. He couldn’t find one on the shelves full of detergents and old paint cans, and none of the storage totes proved fruitful. Without any luck, Steve decided to check the car. The driver’s door was nearest him, and was unlocked, so he crawled inside to pop open the glove box. Sitting on top of the owner’s manual was a small red kit with a white cross plastered on the face.

“Finally,” Steve remarked as he picked up the kit.

“Check it out,” Grace called over to him.

Steve crawled back out of the car and shut the door. Grace was standing near the now opened fridge with a wide grin on her face. The refrigerator was well stocked, mostly with beer, but there were a few water bottles within as well. Joining in, Steve smiled too. He felt like they’d lucked out picking this house, choosing to ignore the fact that Aaron was shot at, they had to maim an old lady, and they had almost no medicine.

Upstairs, Aaron Was finishing off the jar of beans. The last one always tasted the best to him, and he relished its crunch. He set the jar on the windowsill while he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. Something caught his eye out the window. Leaning closer, he peered through the clear pane and tried to squint his way through the fog. Something was moving out there, and from its telltale lurch Aaron knew it was a zombie.

Letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, Aaron assessed the situation. One zombie wandering the streets was cause for concern, but not necessarily alarm. It wasn’t a problem on its own, especially not against a group as well armed as his friends. He decided he’d go tell the guys, but that they wouldn’t panic until more showed up.

More movement caught his eye, and Aaron blinked. Where one zombie had passed, dozens more were following. There was no telling how many more were lurking in the fog, but Aaron was sure of one thing.

This was cause for alarm.

Pathogen - Chapter 10

Having come up against a zombie rather unexpectedly, Aaron stumbled away from it. However, he was in an unfamiliar place and only succeeded in catching his foot on the bed. Gracelessly  tumbling into the bed, Aaron fought desperately to escape. Rather, he soon found himself tangled in the sheets.

Aaron held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut tight. It would come any moment now, the pain of being eaten alive. He’d really botched things up.

A moment passed. Then another.

Confused, Aaron wondered why he wasn’t being murdered. Not that he was complaining, but there was a zombie in the room after all. He had seen it, it had seen him, and then murder was to be expected. Aaron could even hear the creature snarling and gnashing its teeth at him.

Poking his head out of the covers, Aaron had to see what was going on. Sure enough, the zombie was sitting in the room, snapping his jaw at him. For the first time, Aaron saw the reason the zombie did not pursue him. Tied to an old, wooden rocking chair, the zombie was powerless to escape. Aaron disentangled himself from the sheets, making a fine mess of the bed in the process. He cautiously approached the captive monster for a better look.

Before his death and subsequent reanimation, the zombie had been an old man. The wrinkled codger didn’t have a hair on his head, yet had cultivated a glorious moustache made famous by spaghetti westerns. Judging by the look of him, he must have been at least seventy years old. Perfect white teeth snapped at Aaron, who assumed they must have been his dentures. Apart from the pallor of death, he looked like a pretty ordinary old man. Dressed for bed in his red flannel pajamas, the old man looked right at home in the rocking chair, save for the rope that was rubbing his wrists and ankles raw.

Retreating to the window, Aaron stuck his neck out. Cliff was looking up at him expectantly. No doubt he was waiting to hear from him.

“Dude,” he called down to his friend in a hushed voice, just loud enough to be heard, “There’s a zombie in here!”

“You okay man?” Cliff fought the urge to panic, “Did you kill it?”

Aaron shook his head, “He’s all tied up. Looks like whoever lived here had this all under control.”

Cliff considered what kind of person would tie up a zombie. It didn’t make sense to him. “Okay,” he instructed his friend, “Go downstairs and unlock the back door for me. Keep an eye out for Grace and Steve.”

“You betcha,” Aaron flashed his buddy a thumbs-up before returning indoors.

“Aaron,” Cliff called back up. His friend poked his head back out the window, “Be careful in there, okay?”

Solemnly nodding his head, Aaron returned to the bedroom. He was relieved to know that one zombie had been dispatched in the shed and another had been imprisoned in the bedroom, but he wasn’t ruling out the possibility of bumping into more zombies.
As quietly as he could, Aaron crept across the room, passing inches from the rocking zombie. Reaching out to the door, he unlatched it and pushed. The hinges needed oil badly and creaked in protest. Aaron held his breath, but nothing leapt out to murder him. With a sigh of relief, he released his pent up breath and stepped into the hallway.

He was standing at the end of the hallway, the stairs down at the opposite end. Still creeping as quietly as he could, Aaron wandered to the end of the hall, passing a few closed doors on his way. Everytime the wooden floor creaked underfoot he winced, but kept up his pace. All he had to do was make it down the stairs, meet his buddies, grab some stuff, and then finally they could be on their way to safety.

It would be quick and easy.



Together Steve and Grace stood on the porch, separated from the madwoman’s rifle by a screen door. Steve peered intently into the house. He could see a potted plant behind the old woman, and he had a view of the kitchen at the rear of the house on his right. The stairs leading up started between the kitchen and the front door. Steve struggled to come up with a plan, but it didn’t seem to be any use. If they wanted to get out of this, they’d have to talk their way through it.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Steve started to make with the niceties, hands still in the air.

“You’re telling me,” the old lady retorted, “Asking a lady how old she is. Despicable.”

“I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding,” Steve’s genuine apology was only slightly tempered by the gun in his face, “I only asked about the switchboard thing because you seemed to know a lot about phones. And besides, I thought they kept using switchboards through the 80’s, which was only about thirty years ago.”

“Smooth,” Grace commented, dripping with sarcasm.

“Listen to your lady friend, Steve,” the old woman spat, “You’re certainly not doing yourself any favours.”

Steve figured he’d try another tack, “Ma’am, you have me at a real disadvantage here.”

“Sure do,” the lady cooed as she squinted down the sight of her rifle.

“What I meant,” Steve added quickly, “Was that you know my name, but I haven’t had the pleasure of learning yours yet. So let’s start fresh here: I’m Steve,” Steve slowly planted his palm on his chest, careful not to make any sudden movements, before gesturing towards Grace, “And this is my friend Grace.”

“Nice to meet you,” Grace offered weakly.

The old lady sucked on her teeth, considering for a moment. Finally, she relented, “You can call me Mrs. Withers.”

“It sure is nice to meet you, Mrs. Withers,” Steve smiled, “I suppose I owe it to you to tell you why we’re here.”

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” Mrs. Withers glowered, “You’re here to burgle me. To leave me with nothing while there’s all this mayhem going on out there.”

“Excuse me,” Grace spoke up, “If I may, but if we were going to rob you, why would we ring the doorbell?”

Mrs. Withers hadn’t considered that, but she old, and with age came her stubborness. “You’re the flim flam artists,” she barked, “Why don’t you tell me?”

“We simply came to ask for supplies,” Steve explained, being sure to leave out the bit where they were, in fact, planning to burgle her if she wasn’t home, “But if you don’t have any to spare, we can go. No trouble, we’ll just try somewhere else.”

Steve held his breath while he scrutinised Mrs. Withers’ face. he could tell she didn’t have murder in her heart, that she only wanted to protect her home. Since he’d given her the option to let them leave, he knew that she could feel proud that she had scared them off. Then they could run back to Vernon, and wait for Cliff and Aaron to come back.

Suddenly, Steve remembered that Cliff and Aaron were skulking around the house. If Mrs. Withers caught them, they’d probably end up shot. He desperately hoped they wouldn’t try to break in, or to show their faces until they had squared up with Mrs. Withers.

To his dismay, Steve saw Aaron sneaking down the stairs. Fighting every urge in his body, he struggled to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

Mrs. Withers noticed his consternation. “What are you looking at back there?” she asked as she turned around.

Aaron froze like a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Then he saw the gun raised in his direction. He fled back up the stairs as a deafening report erupted from the rifle. The muzzle flashed, and a hole appeared in the wall near where Aaron’s head had been.

“Burglar!” Mrs. Withers screamed as she threw back the bolt and ejected the spent shell casing, “Miscreant! Hoodlum! Criminal! Hooligan!”

The time for talking their way through this was over. Steve reached for the latch of the screen door. Finding it was locked, he planted a foot firmly against the frame and pulled with all his strength. The lock groaned, then suddenly snapped, sending the door wide open and Steve tumbling backwards down the porch steps.

Grace wasted no time in breaching the front door. She dashed through the now open screen as Mrs. Withers was rounding on her with her rifle. Snatching up the gun by the barrel, the pair struggled over control of the weapon.

Spittle flew as the old woman roared in the young lady’s face, “Let it go, you slatternly tart!”

Wrenching the gun out of her hands, Grace seized hold of the firearm. She hefted the weapon, slamming the butt into Mrs. Withers’ face. A sickening crunch sounded as her nose broke, followed by another when she fell hip first into her potted ficus.

“My granny told me that if you didn’t have anything nice to say about someone, not to say anything at all,” Grace chastised the old woman who lay bleeding on the ground, “Nobody calls me a ‘tart.’”

Aaron poked his head out from around the corner, “Are we cool here?”

Grace nodded, training the rifle on the old woman, “Yeah, we’re cool.”

“Cool,” Aaron nodded as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “I’m gonna go ahead and let Cliff in. He’s probably losing his mind out there.”

Indeed, he was disturbed by the commotion. Cliff had run around the front of the house, and saw Steve sprawled across the steps. “Steve,” he called to his friends as he sank to his knees and cradled his friend in his arms, “I heard the shot! Where are you hit? You’re gonna make it through this, buddy!”

Steve’s eyes fluttered open. “I know I am,” he said through a grin, “She didn’t shoot at me. Nothing hurt. Well, except my pride.”

Cliff and Steve disengaged from each other. Suddenly aware of the awkward moment they’d shared, Cliff wasn’t even going to help his friend up. Steve climbed to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Let’s take it inside, gentlemen,” Grace barked orders over her shoulder, “We’ve got work to do here.”

The two boys stepped inside, and Cliff saw the old woman for the first time. “Oh my goodness,” he declared, “Has she fallen and she can’t get up?”

“Fuck you,” a pained voice shot back from the floor.

“Hooray,” Grace cheered with sarcasm, “She’s still conscious.”

Aaron returned from the kitchen, gleefully munching on an apple he’d found in a bowl on the counter. “So let’s talk about the elephant in the room,” he managed between bites, “And when I say ‘elephant,’ I’m really talking about ‘zombie.’”

“Where?” Grace asked in bewilderment, scanning about for the unseen threat.

Taking another bite from the juicy, red apple, Aaron pointed upstairs. “Bedroom,” he explained with his mouth full, “Tied to a chair.”

All eyes turned to Mrs. Withers on the floor. “My husband,” she sighed by way of explanation, “That’s him tied up there.”

“Ah, loved one,” Aaron chewed, “That explains why you didn’t bash his head in.”

“Don’t you touch him!” she screamed from the floor, “Norm and I have been married for fifty years, and I’m not going to let a snot nosed hooligan such as yourself take that from me!”

The gang shared an awkward moment as Mrs. Withers broke down sobbing. None of them could imagine the pain she was experiencing, and nobody wanted to be the first to say something.

However, somebody had to speak first, and Steve was the one to break the silence. “I feel bad for her,” he admitted, “Maybe we can take her with us?”

“She shot at me,” Aaron pointed out as he casually tossed the apple core to the floor.

Grace shook her head, “She isn’t going anywhere with a broken hip.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Mrs. Withers gasped between sobs, “I want to be with Norm.”

Dropping to one knee, Cliff lowered himself to Mrs. Withers’ level. He gently scooped her up. She was a tough woman, who didn’t protest at the physical pain she must have felt, but she was scrawny too. Cliff was able to carry her with ease up the stairs as he left his friends questioning below.

Cliff passed by several doors before he spoke. “Which one is it?” he asked as gently as he could manage.

Mrs. Withers pointed down to the end of the hall. He brought her there, and eased the door open with his foot. Carefully, he carried her over the threshold, and past the old man tied to the rocking chair.

“Norm,” Mrs. Withers whispered as they passed.

Cliff laid her in the bed with the utmost care, then made up the covers around her. She let out a soft ‘thank you’ as he left without another door. Gently, he shut the door behind him as he left.

“You know, that’s not her husband up there anymore,” Aaron greeted Cliff as he descended the stairs, “It’s just some monster that wants to eat her face now.”

“I know,” Cliff agreed, “And I think deep down, she knows it too. But all she wants is to spend her last moments with her husband, and I’m not going to be the one to take that from her.”

Together they stood in silence, listening to the old woman sobbing softly upstairs.

Pathogen - Chapter 9

His world was still enveloped in a thick fog when Scruffy emerged from the woods. The Carrion smell lingered far behind him, but he felt safe enough for the moment. He didn’t think the Lady who was chasing him would be making it through the bush anytime soon.

Scruffy tried to gather his bearings. It was difficult to see very far in the fog, and there weren’t any smells that were familiar to him. He knew he must be around the neighbourhood he had seen from the hill, but with all the twists and turns he’d been forced to take in his journey downhill it was hard not to lose his sense of direction. 

Instinct told Scruffy to keep moving, lest the Polka Dot Lady catch him, or one of the other Dead Things. Limping away, he set off directly ahead down a narrow street flanked by neat rows of  houses. His injured paw was still giving him trouble, but it didn’t hurt as badly as when he’d fallen out of the car. Still, he could only move at a somewhat halting pace.

While Scruffy hobbled along, he kept his nose open to any sign of danger. The suburban neighbourhood was a rich tapestry of aromas for the dog. Someone had been burning leaves recently, and another had baked cookies. But all the myriad smells were permeated by a thick, odorous blanket of Carrion.

Crushing crisp, dead leaves underfoot, Scruffy picked up his pace. He no longer felt safe. Fear told him that the Dead Things were everywhere, that there was no escaping him. The smell of Carrion was all around him.

Reaching the end of the block, Scruffy stopped. A four way intersection lay before him. The dog whimpered, unsure of which way to go. He couldn’t see far in the fog, but his other senses told him the danger was all around him, with the Polka Dot Lady somewhere behind him. Scruffy paced, nose to the ground and tail between his legs, while he pondered over what to do.

Suddenly, a familiar scent wafted to his nose. Almost impossibly faint, Scruffy wasn’t sure he’d smelled it at first. But there was no mistaking it: Master had been somewhere near here. With a renewed enthusiasm, Scruffy set about, trying to recover his Master’s spoor. It wasn’t easy, since Master hadn’t actually set foot at this spot, but Scruffy was downwind of the scent at the moment.

Turning left at the intersection, Scruffy trotted as fast as his wounded leg would allow. Tail wagging in excitement, the dog longed to be reunited with his Master. Scruffy was confident that Master would know what to do with the Dead Things.

Lights flashed in the fog ahead of Scruffy. Eagerly, the dog approached an abandoned police car. Master had been here, he was sure of it. The Carrion smell was also stronger here, Scruffy realised. Investigating the scene, Scruffy limped around the car. Both the doors were open on this side of the car, and a body was lying in the street.

Cautiously, Scruffy inched his nose towards the body. It smelled like a Dead Thing, but this one wasn’t trying to eat him like the Polka Dot Lady was. Scruffy wondered why that might be.

His musing was cut short as two new scents wafted towards him. A Man and a Woman he’d never smelled  before were approaching. Scruffy limped away, his claws clicking against the asphalt. With his injury he wasn’t comfortable meeting strangers just yet.

Scruffy had just wiggled under a nearby picket fence when the Man and Woman jogged into view. They looked haggard, as if they’d been on the run for hours. Scruffy sympathised, but still he warily watched from his hiding place.

“Hold up a sec,” the Man panted as he approached the abandoned car, “There  might be something here we can use.

The Woman looked nervous, “I don’t like this. We should keep going, they’re not going to stop chasing us.”

The Man wasn’t listening, and had approached the car. He kept an eye on the body lying in the street before ducking his head into the car. “Somebody’s been here before,” he announced.

Scruffy could smell Carrion again, stronger now and getting closer. Hackles raised, Scruffy curled his lips back and growled.

Whirling around, the Woman tried to pinpoint the sound. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

“You’re imagining things,” the Man answered. “Just a minute longer. Maybe there’s something those scavengers missed.”

A shambling outline appeared in the fog, approaching the Man and Woman unseen. Scruffy wanted to warn the two of them, even though it went against his Instincts. He sounded the alarm with a bark.

“That was definitely something,” the Woman announced as she approached the source of the noise. “Sounded like a dog,” she added.

“Leave the mangy mutt alone,” the man ordered from the front of the car, “You don’t want him calling all the freaking zombies here, do you?”

The Dead Thing was within spitting distance of the man now. Scruffy kept barking, trying to warn him, but it was too late. The Polka Dot Lady had followed Scruffy here, and now she was climbing into the police car. 

Screaming, the Man suddenly realised what was happening. The Woman covered her mouth, but couldn’t help screaming too. Still barking, Scruffy crawled out from under the fence and approached the couple.  The Man was done for, but he could still save the Woman.

Out of the corner of her eye, the Woman saw Scruffy for the first time. She paid him no mind at first, there was too much going on for her to deal with at the moment. Scruffy limped down the road, opposite the way the couple had arrived. He turned to face the Woman and barked again.

In a panic, the Woman fled the way she had come. Scruffy chased after her, still barking. He could smell Carrion from that direction. She almost didn’t even see the first zombie, it just sort of appeared out of the fog. Backpedalling, she skidded to a halt and started running back towards the police car. 

Scruffy ran down the road ahead of her. It pained him greatly, but he was back to using all four legs. The fog grew thicker around them, growing so close that although they were running almost side by side, Scruffy and the Woman could hardly see each other. 

Bounding a few paces ahead, Scruffy came to a sudden stop. He could smell the Dead Things ahead of them. He growled at the unseen monsters hidden in the fog.

The lady came to a halt beside him. “What is it?” she asked, as if Scruffy could answer her, “Are there more of them out there?”

Scruffy didn’t answer. He just set off in a different direction. The Woman followed him. Together the two of them wound their way through the neighbourhood. Scruffy could sniff out the Dead Things before they ran into them, but the suburbs were like a maze now. It would only be a matter of time before they ran into a dead end.