Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 2

The Host from the South

A Walk in the Park II

By J. Ian Manczur

Albert Joseph woke with a rather nasty kink in the neck. Nix that-- his whole body was sore. The result of a night spent draped over a coffee table. He groaned and swore and swore some more. He cussed with every word he could remember and a few he had forgotten until this passion took him. He cussed with modern slang. He cussed with classics. He cussed archaically. He cussed for generations to come.

He promised, too. A promise to quit drinking. A promise to avoid even a glance at alcohol. A promise to never again wake up on, in, or under any coffee tables, ottomans, hope chests, bathtubs, stairwells, or any variety of the equally uncomfortable sleeping arrangements he regularly decided upon in his many drunken stupors. He promised these on his life, his honor, his mother’s grave, to heaven above, hell below, and any other power that had ever claimed godhood. Finally, he finished as he always did: with a promise that this time, he meant it.

*********************

Outside, John, one of the night watchmen, waited anxiously for the final fifteen minutes of his shift to be over. He looked forward to some sleep, even more so than usual, for later that day his group would be crossing Beuller Park. John wanted to be as pleasantly refreshed as possible before marching to his death.

Thunder clapped loudly and the skies opened for another deluge, the fifth time since his shift began. John hoped it would stick. Heavy rains weren’t a part of the plan. Heavy rains meant reconsideration, delay, maybe even a stay of execution. Hurley would be positively livid if that happened.

John shivered under the barely-protective awning and wrapped his blanket more tightly around himself. Be it rain, sleet, snow, or hail, the night watch must bear through! Ever vigilant: that should have been their motto, or creed. He made a mental note to bring it up at the next meeting. Lightning momentarily illuminated the street and John’s heart sank at the sight. Ever damned was more like the truth. How could they hope to survive against such impossible odds? Against a countless legion? Again an enemy that, intended or not, had successfully laid siege and starved them out? Now they had to travel on the ground again. The park would be death of him and every man, woman, and child who entered it.

Perhaps not, though. Perhaps the rains would dissuade the undead. Or, even better, promote rotting or mold or —the storm suddenly lightened, leaving behind only a faint drizzle— or the rains would clear and he would die.

John glanced at his watch-- six in morning. His shift was over. On cue, AJ rushed through the sliding glass door and vomited over the side of the balcony. Retching—the sweet sound of routine. Of normalcy.

“Yo, Age.” No acknowledgement. “Good morning to you, too.”

With his head still hung over the railing, AJ flipped him the bird.

“Charming. I’m not liking the look of this weather. Think Hurley’ll cancel?”

“Not likely.” AJ wiped his mouth. “Got a smoke?”

John patted empty pockets. “Fresh out. So you don’t think--”

“Hold that thought,” AJ spun and started for indoors. “I’ll be right back.”

John winced as AJ broke the old horror rule. Survival had become his paramount interest and, as everything he had ever been taught no longer applied, he became a slave to his own unhealthy superstitions, fueled by popular culture, old wives’ tales, and paranoia.

*********************

AJ had no such imaginings. His focus was on keeping as close to the former quality of his life as possible. It was with that intention that he crept gingerly between the heaps of sleeping bodies spread out over every inch of the apartment. His ultimate goal was to reach Malcom. More specifically, Malcom’s pack, and even more specifically, Malcom’s cigarettes. It was a daunting task for any soul.

Malcom was an obscenely tall, bespectacled individual with more than a few eccentricities. The quirk most prevalent in AJ’s mind currently was of Malcom’s tendency to sleep sitting straight up in a chair, pack tucked under his feet and ever-present handgun resting in his lap. A warning to thieves. AJ briefly hesitated, heeding the warning only to just as quickly ignore it. However swift to the trigger Malcom may have usually been, his snoring was testament to his current state of sedation. Still, this was a time-sensitive operation. The longer AJ took to find the cigarettes, the more likely Malcom was to wake and do something irrevocably irrational.

AJ reached his hands under the chair, searching for the dark green, medium sized camping backpack. Aside from the main compartment, there were eight additional pouches of various shape and size. Plenty of potential storage spots. The question of which to try first came down to: What sort of smoker was Malcom? Regular, certainly, but rarely on the go. He’d probably keep the side pockets open for more vital items. The cigarettes would be accessible, but not a priority, and somewhere they wouldn’t be crushed…top front pouch.

AJ gripped the flashlight between his teeth and slowly as he thought he could manage lowered the zipper. Damn. Medical supplies. He noticed the snoring had stopped seconds before he felt cold steel pressing against his forehead.

“Chill, Malcom. It’s AJ.”

The hammer drew back.

“Cigarettes. Poker. You owe.”

The gun lifted and a murmur escaped from Malcom’s lips, “Bottom left.”

AJ snatched up a count of six and whispered back, “Thanks, buddy.”

“Fuck off.” Malcom then shifted his weight and fell back asleep. What a crazy bastard.

Next on the morning agenda was to find a light, so AJ headed for the kitchen. Claire was already awake and preparing breakfast, attended by her two inseparable young helpers. Their backs were turned to him as they focused on working. He slipped in quietly.

The kitchen required expert navigation. The linoleum was sticky and peeling. Pots and pans were scattered about. Propane fires were alight. Foodstuffs were stacked haphazardly, and other supplies and garbage littered the floor. John would have had a panic attack.

AJ went straight for the food stock, swiftly and silently obtaining two cans of Paradise Falls Peaches, in heavy syrup. He deposited them in the deep pockets of his coat. Styrofoam cups of coffee lined the formica counter, waiting to be served with the meal. AJ took a cup, sipped it, and placed it back exactly as it had been. The coffee itself was terrible. Watery, probably instant, and now, somebody else’s problem. He lowered a cigarette to one of the fires tasked with boiling water and took two puffs.

List complete, AJ began his retreat. He was proud of his accomplishments, especially that of leaving the girls none the wiser. He carefully opened the door. Almost home free…Almost.

“Albert Joseph!”

AJ whirled, hiding the still-burning cigarette behind his back. “Morning, my love.”

“Don’t you ‘my love’ me! What have I told you about smoking in my kitchen?”

Claire was just out of her teens, but already she was well established as the matron of their clan. She had recognized her own influence early on and promptly dismissed it as a natural product of her faith and unbending loyalty to Thomas, who had become both her religious advisor and surrogate father figure. AJ though, felt that the opposite was true; whatever power Thomas held was actually a result of Claire’s deference to him.

“I don’t--” AJ started his excuse before he was abruptly interrupted by Claire snatching away his cigarette.

She arched her eyebrow. “You were saying?”

He changed the subject. “Hi, girls.”

The older, probably ten or eleven, paused from her whisking. “Hello, Mr. Perry.”

The younger, not much more than a babe, clung to Claire’s dress, hiding her face in its folds.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to your thing, then,” AJ gave a quick wave and turned to go.

“Not so fast, mister.”

“Now, Claire, time is of the essence. I’ve got work to be getting to.”

“John can wait. Empty your pockets.”

“But…”

“Now!” Claire rose to her full height of four feet, eleven inches and stomped her foot. End of discussion. AJ removed the two cans of peaches and placed them on the counter.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She studied both the purloined peaches and his eyes, then made her decision. “You can have one.”

“But the other was for John,” he lied.

“How thoughtful! Tell him, if he wants some, he can come here himself. Otherwise you two are going to have to share. And by the way, take the coffee. Honestly, putting it back? Where are your manners? Now, get going before John has another panic attack. Girls?”

“Bye, Mr. Perry!” both chimed in unison.

AJ quickly departed the scene before Claire could remember anything else that she could berate him about.

*********************

The apartment was a little less crowded by then, as the early risers had risen early. AJ was not harassed as he crossed the rooms to properly start his shift outside. John was still in the same spot as before, lost in thought and melancholy. He let out a heavy sigh as AJ approached, and muttered, “It’s an ill omen.”

With John, life was filled with ill omens. AJ decided to humor him for the moment.

“What is?” he asked, offering John the coffee, and, upon rejection, tossing it off the balcony.

“A crow.” John let out another sigh for emphasis.

AJ could not have cared less, so instead he asked John for a light. The inquiry immediately precipitated a hostile negotiation. John demanded payment on a total of seventeen cigarettes owed through poker and loans. AJ, with skills honed by years and practice, strongly argued his frivolous points.

They reached a settlement, agreeing to an even split of what AJ had just acquired. Two for himself, two for John, and a further two for himself that John didn’t need to know about. They were both satisfied. AJ, bitter at having to part with any at all, was thankful that at least he avoided having to hear more about the crow.

Or so he thought.

“You didn’t even react to my mention of a crow.”

AJ exhaled his smoke. “It’s just a bird.”

“Just a bird?” John looked incredulously at him. “Just a bird, he says. Crows have long been symbols of death, prophets of evil, bearers of unwelcome tidings, portents of doom! Just a bird!”

“John, I’m thirty-two. I’ve seen probably thousands of crows in my time. The devil willing, I’ll see thousands more. Not one has ever prophesied evil, and most certainly none have ever portended doom.”

John sat back against the wall. “The world did end.”

He had a point.

“Alright, what happened with ol’ Nevermore?”

“That was a raven, not a crow, but it doesn’t matter right now. As soon as you left, a crow landed on the railing. Right in front of me. A big, fat, nasty one. It wouldn’t stop staring at me. I couldn’t look at it. And then I did. I gazed right in its eyes and I saw my death.”

“How did you die?” AJ had to admit that he was intrigued.

“Well, I didn’t literally see my death. It was more like…a knowledge of my destiny.”

“Oh.” Asshole. “Where’d the little soothsayer go then?”

“Flew off as soon as you came out.”

“At least there’s some good news, I’m not cursed. Sorry, buddy.” AJ patted John on the back. “Cremation, or burial?”

“How can you joke like that! We’ll be walking into hell in a few hours and a fucking crow lands right there-- Right there! And you have the gall to joke about it? Fuck you!”

“Relax. And watch your mouth. Listen to me, nothing is going to go wrong. The park’s gated. We’ll be in, they’ll be out.” AJ smiled at his own wit. “It’ll be a walk in the park.”

John didn’t seem to enjoy the play of phrase. In fact, it seemed to take him as far from mirth as AJ had ever seen. His eyes smoldered with rage and his brow furrowed with dread, making his overall countenance one of tragic somberness coupled with a grim acceptance of his perceived fell fate. John threw his cigarette to the ground and left to go to bed. AJ let him by without comment. It was better to let John’s tantrums run their own course.

John paused just before the door, “Language evolves, you know.” Always a smug bastard.

“What of it?”

“I guarantee, after today, no one will ever speak lightly of parks again.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Only time will tell.”

John disappeared inside, with nothing more to say. He had already accepted death.

Back from the Dead

After an extended break, we are proud to announce that new stories will be forthcoming, as well as a compilation of everything so far which will be collected into a single compendium, to be released in the not-too-distant future. Stay vigilant, for the dead never rest.

LAD on Brief Hiatus

As you may have noticed, there has been a sizable gab between stories as of late. Some personal issues have recently arisen which have been slowing down production. At this point, we need to take a (hopefully) brief hiatus in order to re-engineer this project a bit. Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope you'll all keep reading when we come back! Watch Facebook for updates.

Volume 6: A Walk in the Park 1

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

A Walk in the Park I

by J. Ian Manczur

My dearest Felecia,

I thought I had the words to write this. They are failing me. So, I may as well fall on blunt truth. When you awake, I will be gone. You cannot come with me.

It must feel so tragic and so cruel. An unfair gesture in an unfair world. I wish I could explain to you in full, but even now as I write, I am being hurried. I guess time was always against us, perhaps we started out of time. Far from hyperbole though, I cannot muster the truth that you deserve.

There are certain expectations of me as a leader. Although, in many ways, the old rules no longer apply, I need to hold myself to their standards. I have built myself on a foundation of the old world and, with that, I have damned us.

Promising you anything was a mistake. It would cause a rift with my people that would never resolve. I do not want forgiveness, you have every right to hate me. I don’t even expect you to understand why. These are the sacrifices we must make. Perhaps, when the world grows a little saner, we will meet again. Until that time, stay safe, Felecia. I am truly sorry.

With all my heart,
Thomas Sarnowski

Volume 6: Dead Dogwood Avenue Blues: Nathaniel's Journeys Part 2

Dead Dogwood Avenue Blues: Nathaniel’s Journeys Part 2
by Scott Thurlow

Nathaniel was entering another abandoned suburb.  He could tell by the silence as he approached it.  It was a natural type, just quiet enough.  No trouble should be around to impede his usual search and scavenge methods.  He went about to the normal spots, where people most often left goods unused in their homes, or fled without taking them.  Nathaniel found a few remaining intact and usable items (batteries and duct tape being some of the more prized of such) which he packed neatly away in his bag before continuing his ransack of the dead town.

As he went on to the next house, he almost tripped over something.  Lying by the side of a shallow ditch was a dead dog.  Its eyes had been picked out by carrion-feeders of one kind or the other.  Its tongue lolled out from the side of its mouth.  Blood or bile matted its tattered greasy black fur, slicking it down in ratty clumps.  Nathaniel glanced up at the street sign on the corner without really knowing why.  It proclaimed the street he was on: Dogwood Avenue.  Nathaniel didn’t see many dogwood trees around the neighborhood, but that sign, named such, and the dog itself, was bringing another memory rushing back to him.

It was the time Nathaniel found himself being chased by a wild pack of formerly family dogs.  There were four of them.  In the wake of the structural breakdown caused by the human infection, household pets were rediscovering their ancient instincts.  Foremost, that they didn’t really need humans to keep them fed after all.  At least, not with dog food.  Friendly Fido furiously and fearsomely went ferociously feral.  Nathaniel stumbled into this new reality as he was searching for useable utilities, performing the same task he currently was.  It seemed things in life were constantly trying to eat Nathaniel.  Then, as now, he often wondered if it would ever end.

The town Nathaniel found himself in at the time was a nondescript, generic, mediocre America type of place.  He remembered then how closely it resembled his hometown much in a way.  Nathaniel had never really noticed how alike all of them were, until he had to go from each to the next.  “Americana”--approximations of the cherished idea of The American Dream.  All packaged and produced wholesale across the country.  (Even the dogs were mostly indistinguishable from each other.)  Then abandoned en masse when the dream roller-coasted away into a nightmare, one also shared by the entire world.

Nathaniel had been salvaging what he could from the wreckage of that crushed, destroyed dream, to continue living to mourn its demise.  He remembered sifting through scraps of anything useful left by those swallowed up by its death-rattle, when had just enough time to look up at the noise (a noise which didn’t sound like the infected, but was nevertheless alarming) and see the surprisingly speedy pace by which the pack was advancing on him.  It was all strangely familiar to him at the time.  Déjà vu of impending doom, but this time via rabid canines.

He had left his car too far away to easily retreat to, so he ran in the other direction, back across the lawn and around to the other side of the nearest house.  In its backyard was an above-ground pool and patio set.  As generically manufactured as the rest of the town itself.  Nathaniel ran towards it without a second thought.  He had to hastily avoid tripping over a faded white plastic lawn chair that was in his path.  The lead dog followed at his heels as his momentum brought him to the edge of the pool, then up, over, and into it.  Nathaniel flopped into the water with a splash as the dog made its own remarkably timed leap and followed him in.

There was a half-deflated polka-dotted plastic seahorse in the pool that Nathaniel tried pathetically using to fight the hound at first.  When it bit through the float toy in half, ripping it from Nathaniel’s grip, he found himself grappling barehanded with the beast.  He managed to quickly wrap his hands around its neck and halt it before its jaws could close in on him.  A flash vision of Anna flew in front of his eyes, before his attention was snapped back to the fierce animal.

With no other options in sight, and feeling the instinct rise up in him, Nathaniel plunged the dog’s head under as forcefully as he could manage, submerging it under the grimy water.  He wasn’t sure exactly how long, but it didn’t seem like much more than a minute or two before the dog ceased its rage and bobbed lifelessly beside him, like the sadly shredded seahorse, in the water.  The other three still surrounded the pool yipping and snarling incessantly.  Nathaniel had no time to cry over a dead dog.  He looked around and spotted an elaborate children’s playset in the next backyard, beyond the short picket fence that separated the two homes.  With the now depleted pack watching and hungrily tracking his every move, Nathaniel balanced up on the edge of the pool and readied himself to jump.  His clothes dripped scummy water and he shook himself off as best he could before having to make his next move.

He was able to just clear the fence as the dogs came howling behind him.  Nathaniel headed towards the red slide of the playset.  He didn’t see at first the number of other dead and half-eaten smaller animals scattered in this yard.  Squirrels, rabbits, what looked like a calico cat, all reduced to bloody leftovers and gnawed bones.  Nathaniel skirted around them to the playset and ran to the slide, shimmying upwards while grabbing its edges for balance.  When Nathaniel made it to the top, the dogs jumped and slid down it in vain a couple of tries (luckily his damp clothes had slicked the slide, making the dogs’ task more difficult) before settling on pacing and snapping impatiently around the perimeter of the playset itself.  He looked then to the screen door at the back of the house he was at.  It stood ever so slightly ajar.  He couldn’t make out much more of the view inside.  Nathaniel felt it was his best hope though, far better than being trapped outside on top of the playset.  He gauged the quickest way off the slide and through the door and into what would hopefully be a safer place.

Nathaniel wasn’t quite fast enough to slam the door shut completely behind him.  A single member of the pack had made it through inside with him.  Nathaniel dove to the side of the first piece of furniture he saw, a bland cream colored couch.  The dog wasn’t prepared for this and carried a bit past the couch, skidded across the tile floor as it tried to halt itself, before finally bouncing off a kitchen cabinet.  It let out a wounded yelp.  Nathaniel decided to act while the mutt was still stunned.  He ran towards what he figured was the hallway leading to the front door of the house.  The dog recovered itself and rapidly resumed its course, but Nathaniel had reached the exit ahead of it with seconds to spare.  Shutting the lock into place behind him, he slammed the door and found himself back outside, on the front steps of the home.

The remaining two dogs had apparently plotted his course and were not interested in giving up the chase any time soon.  They were waiting for him just outside.  Nathaniel decided the house trick had worked once and still seemed the safest option.  He ran in a beeline to the backyard of the neighboring house to see if it or any others had also been left open.

It took him a few more houses before he spied another open back door.  Nathaniel zig-zagged this time across the yard, hoping to confuse the dogs, or at least tire them out, as he himself was expending much more energy than he was originally expecting to on this excursion.  For this attempt, he tried to purposefully lead the dog through the door with him, hoping to be better prepared for his next action.  What he was not prepared for was the sight inside.

Nathaniel had indeed managed to successfully trap himself in with yet another dog.  Inside this second house however was a circus of another kind.  If when it rains, it pours, then today it seemed to be a hurricane of canines and felines.  Dozens of cats wandered the house, or lounged on pieces of furniture.  Some mewed but most milled about or looked lazily up from their resting perches.  That is, before they got wind of the hungry hound that had entered their domain.  The interior erupted into chaos, the cats scattered in all directions as the dog tried to decide which one it most wanted to chase, abandoning Nathaniel as intensely as it had started hunting him.  Nathaniel locked this dog alone in the house with the army of cats.  It might have been a fair fight.  Either way, he was left with just one canine assailant on his trail now.

With the faint sounds of the animal orgy he had just created and left emanating from the house, Nathan saw that the last dog awaited him patiently in the street.  It stalked back and forth, no longer rushing blindly at him, having had time to recover itself.  Now, it was intensely focused on Nathaniel, despite its successive loss of pack mates.  Perhaps it had decided to see this battle to the bitter end out of a sense of revenge, so bent did the animal seem to be on finishing the pursuit.  It glared and growled menacingly at him from a short distance away.  Nathaniel knew it would soon spring and frantically surveyed his surroundings for an escape.

A few yards away, he could make out a shed of some kind.  It appeared quite sturdy.  Another staple of middle class home owning.  The metal door swung open and shut a few times, banging in the breeze, then settled.  He headed towards it.  The dog sensed his intentions and was on his trail in seconds.

In a turn of maneuvers that worked out again in his favor, Nathaniel reached the door and grabbed its edge, slamming it shut behind him in one smooth series of motions.  He heard it click into place.  He was safe, for the moment.  Protected by what appeared to be a well-stocked gardening enthusiast’s or construction worker’s supply shed.  Shovels, rakes, and a variety of other implements of all shapes and sizes hung adorning its walls and shelves.  Two chainsaws, one larger and the other smaller, leaned side by side in a corner.  A number of two-by-fours and a table saw lay across a wooden workbench.  Outside the shed, the last dog was wildly jumping and pounding against the door, barking nonstop and producing a raucous riot of noise.

Nathaniel looked around at the items contained in the shed and thought for a minute.  He then selected a medium sized hammer and a small pair of recently sharpened hedge shears.  He crept to the door, slowly unlocked it and kicked it open with more force than he thought he had in him.  There was nothing there.  A split second later, the last feral canine pounced on him, barreling in unseen from the side.  Nathaniel dropped the hammer as he was knocked off balance by the force of the dog crashing into him.  He fell and rolled, tumbling across the ground with it, attempting to grapple it in the same way as the one in the pool; but finding the circumstances and field of battle much more to his disadvantage this time.

The tangle of Nathaniel and dog came undone a few feet away from the shed.  Nathaniel realized in an instant that he still gripped the shears in his other hand.  He had just enough time to glance up as the dog came snapping back at him.  He lashed out and slashed at its snout.  As a splatter of its blood hit his face, Nathaniel saw that his wild swipe had caught the thing low across the throat with the shears, and mercifully ended its life.  Nathaniel flopped back as the dog’s dead weight fell on top of him.  He coughed, then rolled aside and pushed the carcass off.

Nathaniel sat up.  He was panting like a dog himself with exertion, and finally starting to feel the chill seep into him from his wet clothes.  But all seemed quiet again.  He glanced about.  Nothing new appeared to be menacing him just then.  Nathaniel got up to check himself.  He had had suffered some cuts and bruises in the struggles, but was otherwise unhurt.  His travel pack was sealed and no supplies seemed to be ruined.  He had survived the bizarre battle.

Nathaniel looked over again to the dog whose throat he was forced to slice open moments ago.  He leaned over to inspect its collar and attached tag.  At first he thought it read: Rex but upon closer examination, he could make out it was actually: Max.

“Sorry Max, old boy, but it was going to be either you or me,” Nathaniel quietly mumbled as an apology to the slain canine lying beside him.  He realized he was actually (albeit a bit guiltily) relieved that everything had turned out the way it did, versus some of the many alternatives.

Nathaniel wondered at the time if anyone else had ever had to dispose of attacking animals in any such manners.  He supposed it was possible, but as far as he knew, he was probably the only person in the world who could make the claim.  It wasn’t exactly the most comforting feeling in the world, but it seemed like something to Nathaniel.  He would see many more things beyond duels with wild dogs, and ponder the same type of question many times.  But for that day, he had escaped the animals and had to concern himself with the next unforeseen peril.  He gathered himself up and prepared to finally exit the dead town, which was now populated with four more canine carcasses.

Before he left, Nathaniel reached back over to the one lying by the shed and carefully removed its collar.  “Sorry again, Max,” he said as he patted its unmoving body.  He put the tag in his pocket, perhaps for luck, or so he told himself then.  He decided that he would take the shears with him as well.  He stashed them in his pack and headed back.

As he trudged cautiously to his car, after checking all the way for hidden attackers of any species, Nathaniel found himself wondering also how many other freshly formed wild packs of previously tame dogs had come running through how many other neighborhood yards.  He also wondered whom they had belonged to, and what their former owners might make of the fate their pets had met at his unwitting hands.  Most likely they would’ve behaved in the same manner as the dogs themselves, or worse.

Nathaniel looked down again at the dead dog presently lying in the ditch of Dogwood Avenue and reached in his left pocket.  He pulled out Max’s tag, though the name had become barely legible on the cheap metal’s dull surface.  It served as a reminder that unexpected danger was always lurking.  It was not something he reflected particularly fondly upon, but it still taught him valuable lessons about the new state of the world.  He dug out his watch from his pack and glanced at it.  He did not have any more time to think further about dogs or dogwood, or the lack thereof either.  There were no more dogs, dead or otherwise, to be seen this day, in this faceless town, on the wayside of Dogwood Avenue.  Nathaniel thew the tag down alongside the dog’s rotted body.  Then, he departed the town, like he had from so many others, all so much alike.  He knew fully well that, in some way, every dog has its day.

Volume 6: On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)

On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone Of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)
by Scott Thurlow

Dead and mutilated bodies were scattered across the field in front of them. Humans, chickens, pigs, a cow or two in their best judgement. It looked like they had all been there a while. Most were dried up; appearing baked. Shriveled in the long days of the sun and other elements they’d been exposed to.

"Think that's a goat there, too," said Agent Toporidel.

"Hrm. Yes. If you say so,” responded Captain Planck.

Ahead, they came to farmhouse. It was a single bedroom that was best ascribed the dimensions of a shanty placed at what they determined to be the northern most edge of the property. It overlooked from the tiny kitchen window a single dirt road that stretched away into the wilderness beyond. A rising hill was visible to the west.

“This isn’t much of a defensible position. Not sure what else is close.”

“Hrm. We could pile the bodies into a wall. It might take a while though.”

It took a while, but not as long as being dead would be. It was an acceptable ratio of work to survivability. When it was done, the shanty-farmhouse was surrounded on three of its sides by a roughly two-body/body- part layer, reinforced with decaying wooden planks. The planks were from a pile they had found in the field and mistook for some of the carcasses at first.

For the door, they had removed its handle, since they decided it wasn’t going to be much use anyway, and no reason to give targets an open invitation. In its place they set two of the most intact planks across with their travel hammer and can of nails.

One knocked on it, and nodded approvingly at the resounding tone. “Seems good enough. Time to eat?” asked Agent Toporidel.

“Hrm. Yes,” replied Captain Planck.

They shared a cold meal of beans and bread.

“What now?”

“Hrm. Now we rest, and watch. As usual.”

“Alright. First guard?”

“Hrm. Yes. After you.”

Nothing came in the night but they had both already decided to leave the farm by afternoon of the next day.

They left the bodies and wood in place as they packed up again, then set fire to it. Some bodies seemed to burn better than others, but most burned more or less at the same rate, after a while. They enjoyed watching the conflagration before finally departing. They followed the dirt road out away from the main plot of land and did not look back.

As they came trudging up the hill they had spied earlier, they stumbled upon a sign lying next to a lump in the withered ground.

Agent Toporidel approached and read aloud the inscription that was on it.

It was thus:

Here lies:
J. Allen Ducock, Sr.
Beloved resident
Who, sadly, succumbed to a disease of insanity in nature,
And was subsequently devoured by his (beloved to all) cats.
And his body, being in a state of recoverability somewhere between therein by:
eaten and half-eaten
by his who are remembered here by the names of: Bella, Samus, Grue, Waldo, Zelda Fitzgerald, Princess Muffykins (mother of) Mewtwocute, King Richard III, Jezebel, and also of course, Lord Whiskers, who was the sire of…
(About a dozen more cat names followed)
Who, upon found having devoured dearly departed Mr. Ducock, Sr.,
were duly and faithfully buried next to their loving owner, in life.

The date underneath was rendered illegible.

They both agreed the obvious humor of the last name lacked the need for an accompanying remark.

Captain Planck said, “Hrm. Shouldn’t it say ‘unrecovered.’ As in, it wasn’t recovered. The other kind of implies…”

Agent Toporidel, retorted, “That is what it implies. Also, uncertain that’s a word. Perhaps they just refused to let a gravestone lie.”

“What, unrecovered? I don’t think this really qualifies as much of a gravestone. Though if it did, you should most definitely, without a doubt, let it lie.”

“Yes, unrecovered. Well, what would you like to call it? What, is it lying about?”

“It’s almost more of a cairn. Nothing.”

“Not really. No rocks involved.”

“Hrm.”

After a few short seconds, Agent Toporidel pronounced, “Such an insipid, unnecessary grave.”

“Hrm. Yes,” agreed Planck. “Let us spit on it.”

They spit upon the grave.

Toporidel continued, “Why so many cats? And why name and title them all, on the grave. Or whatever it may be. Jesus Christ, that is a biblical lineage of cats. Who would have that many cats, and why? Further, why name them all such inane names? To hell with this dead moron and his cats. Rest in peace, you old codger…catfucker.”

“Hrm. Well-said,” Planck offered to his compatriot’s rant.

The setting sun was now going down over the hill where they discovered the sign at the spot that marked the final resting place of one J. Allen. Ducock, Sr. whom, so clearly, was quite the crazed fornicator of cats. And also of all of his great magnitude of litters and royal guard of said cats. The matching body, they agreed, was, if not unrecovered or unrecoverable, (and it could be both, they decided) then definitely not in any kind of state that would warrant itself worthy to being “properly” buried in such a manner. Nor, of course, were all the cats.

They spit upon the grave a second time. Then they discussed the last name before this on the list. The only thing they remembered being recoverable about him, was his head.

Agent Toporidel asked, “Wonder where he was headed? Looks like nowhere now. If it was even the same guy. Catfucker’s head found in burned down shed. We should move on to the next.”

“Hrm. Yes.” Captain Planck agreed again.

They also agreed that “catfucker” was henceforth to be a newly incorporated term of theirs. But, to be used, that is, sparingly, with restraint, and only where most appropriate and/or hilarious.

They cut up the grave sign and used it to start a small but serviceable campfire. They shared another meager meal of canned beans and bread, but this time at least roasted. Captain Planck handed Agent Toporidel his gun. He watched while Planck ate or slept. Then they switched. This was the plan all night.

In the morning, Agent Toporidel went back and took a last look at the spot on the hill. Captain Planck joined shortly thereafter.

Agent Toporidel gave a short eulogy, “Godspeed, Ducock, Sr., Catfucker.” Both agreed it was the most appropriate, and fitting moment to say such.

“Let us now depart the premises of this fucker of cats grave, and leave it at once.

“Hrm. One last thing,” added Captain Planck.

They both spit a third and final time upon the grave and left it at once. Away with the deceased Ducock, and his cat fornicating ways as well. They packed up their supplies and headed away from the hill. Past the spot and over the rise, to another tract of low lying farmland.

Agent Toporidel asked, "Who does the list say?"

Captain Planck pulled out the carefully preserved page from their pack and answered, "Hrm. Seems the winner is Samantha Klostierman. From Rhubarb, Ilinois."

"That's still rather north a ways."

"Hrm. Yes, so it would appear. And a bit east, too. Is there a different way you'd like to go?"

"I suppose not. There's no one closer, right?"

"Hrm. If there was, wouldn't you think I would've said at the outset of this venture?"

“I was just checking that all the facts were in place."

"Hrm. Why wouldn’t they be?"

"Just checking, is all."

Silence stood between them again, but not an antagonistic kind. They let it permeate the walk for a while.

The next place they came to had less of a farm to it and more of a house. It didn't appear too badly dilapidated. Nor were there any dead bodies to inspect, human or otherwise. They performed a systematic check of the interior, as per usual routine. It had more of an acceptably defensible design, requiring few modifications. They ransacked the house for anything left or discarded that could aid them. Most of the leftover food was spoiled but the previous occupants had neglected to take a couple of cans with them into oblivion.

Toporidel contributed, “More beans. Can always use them."

Planck nodded assent. "Hrm. Yes indeed. Breakfast of champions."

They found a few items of note to add to their collection. Mostly kitchen household appliances and utensils that could be used to augment what they had already accrued.

They decided to spend a few days. Samantha Klostierman, from Rhubarb, Illinois, would have her time. And they theirs.

They stayed in the house for four days until such time upon when it was decided and agreed upon to leave once again.

In two more days they were no longer following dirt or local roads, instead having come to a major highway after emerging from the woods and crossing over to it. Cars were abandoned at various spots. The highway had more bodies scattered intermittently along it. They whittled the time by keeping count until they passed a road sign overhead that announced they were 74 miles from Rhubarb.

"Should be there before the week ends."

"Hrm. Yes. So it seems. Then what?"

"Then, we hope things go better there, or I swear by old Mr. Ducock, god rest his crazy cat fucking soul, we, and by extension, Ms. Klostierman herself, are all going to be rather unhappy. Again."

“Hrm. Yes. Excellent use, as well.”

“Agreed.”

There was nothing else to be said about the matter at the moment, so they journeyed some more before selecting a car to use as a hut for the night. They would have driven, but both knew cars could attract attention these days, of the usually unwanted kind.

Days passed as they moved from car to car like silent bees, draining them of anything useful, before methodically moving on to the next.

Fifty miles later, another road sign informed them it was now exactly 14 miles to Rhubarb. Precisely on schedule for their purposes.

Fourteen miles after that, Captain Planck checked that they had the correct address as they entered the town of Rhubarb.

Agent Toporidel declared that here in the town, could be finally what they were looking for.

Planck replied with a standard rejoinder, “Hrm. We’ll see.”

They saw. It wasn’t much. The town had clearly been overrun in a rush and left behind. Now almost nothing remained. No signs of any stragglers left behind to scavenge and pick its bones clean. Great piles of dead leaves blew through the streets constantly, forcing them both to shield their eyes from the drifting debris.

Samantha Klostierman’s house was in the middle of a row of fairly similar ones. She didn’t answer the door, which they took to be an ominous sign. It opened easily and they peered into a darkened hallway that led to a living room. The kitchen was adjacent. A staircase in the foyer led up.

Agent Toporidel inquired, “Upstairs first?”

Captain Planck was firm, “Hrm. No. Ground floor.”

The living room contained nothing special. It had long been plundered of anything useful. The kitchen was mostly the same. In any case, they agreed that they weren’t going to take anything.

“Upstairs it is then.”

“Hrm. Yes. Let us go.”

They guessed they had found Samantha Klostierman’s room because it was the only room upstairs aside from a bathroom that was pathetic in its bareness. An odd design for a house, but the fact was no help to them.

Of little Miss Samantha herself, there were not many signs. They combed through the dressers and closet and uncovered some dregs of dresses with tacky designs and twenty pairs of shoes, but found nothing that could provide any further direction.

Toporidel stated grimly, “Looks like we’re going to be unhappy.”

“Hrm. Didn’t we check everything?”

“Let us check again, just in case.”

They checked again. Upon the second search, they stumbled on a hastily scribbled note half-wedged and hidden under the corner of a dresser. They deciphered its brief message:

Went to West Freemantua!! Meet me please, pLEASE!!
-Sam k.

“That’s helpful. It’s something, anyway.”

“Hrm. Yes. Yes, it is.”

The city mentioned was another hundred or so miles south, but still roughly east.

“Looks like we’re going on the road, again.”

“Hrm. Yes. Here we go. It’s going to be for a while.”

Thus they went. On the road. Again. It was a while.

Volume 6: Precipice

Precipice
by Steven Ormosi

AJ walked out of Mayor Jenkins’ office with a newfound sense of importance. He was going to be instrumental in developing the cure. He was going to be the one who determined if it was safe to go outside the walls. He was going to be a hero. The mayor had told him as much.

He had been going stir crazy in the lab lately. Nothing ever seemed to bother Dr. Harvey. She could always maintain her veneer of scientific detachment. AJ on the other hand felt constantly claustrophobic. Even though he knew he was doing important work with the infected and helping to ensure a future, he had begun to lose his cool. A blessing, that’s what this trip was. He strolled back towards Dr. Harvey’s lab with purpose.

Upon entering the lab, AJ could immediately tell that something was wrong. It was too quiet. Where were the infected banging on their cages? Paralyzing fear came over him then. How could they have gotten free?

“Dr. Harvey?” He shouted into the silence. “What’s going on?”

No answer. This was not good. He took the shotgun they kept near the entrance and walked towards the back hesitantly. There was still no sound. How could they have all escaped? He slowly opened the door.

Nothing. They were all gone. There was no blood, no sign of anything. He heard a footstep behind him and whirled, bringing the shotgun up.

Dr. Harvey screamed, “AJ, no!”

AJ managed to stop himself from pulling the trigger even though he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. “What the hell is going on, Dr. Harvey?”

“Oh, Jesus,” she managed looking out from behind her hands, which she had put up for defense. “I didn’t know you were going to be here this afternoon, I thought you had a meeting with the mayor. And will you put that thing down!”

AJ lowered the gun, “Sorry, I was just terrified that they’d escaped. The meeting with the mayor is over, I was coming to tell you about it when…well, this happened. Where are they all?”

“I’m changing labs, AJ, we’ve got a more secure location about two blocks away. I was going to tell you tomorrow when I saw you.”

AJ breathed a sigh of relief, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t think it was going to happen so quickly. We got the resources we needed for the move and we got it underway. I didn’t want to wait.”

“I should’ve been here to help. How did you move them?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a problem, just tranqed the hell out of them and loaded them into a covered truck. It went pretty quickly. Permission to use the truck was what I’d been waiting for, so as soon as I got it, I started packing everything up. There was one unfortunate accident. One of the orderlies was bitten.” Dr. Harvey’s mood went sour. “It was…unpleasant.”

AJ was horrified, “Who?”

“Caleb. I liked him. But now you know why we have to be as careful as we can, one mistake and you’re a goner.”

“Is he—“

“He’s in a quarantine cage right now, just waiting. It’s awful. I keep trying to distance myself, tell myself that I have to look at him scientifically now, but the only thing I can see are his eyes, pleading for me to put him out of his misery. I wish I could.”

“Dr. Harvey, we should help him.”

“Oh, AJ, we couldn’t even if we wanted to, he’s under lock and key now in the quarantine zone. They won’t bring him to the lab until later.”

“We have access to those areas. We could figure something out. He worked for you, Dr. Harvey, you can’t just let him change into a monster. Look, I have nothing but respect for you as a scientist, but if you let Caleb go through that, I’m not sure I can respect you as a person anymore. What if it was me?”

“We all make our own choices, AJ. Caleb knew there were risks when he agreed to help us with our research, just like you do. Should we kill all of the specimens just because they used to be human? Hell, some of them still are. We can’t just ignore the established protocol because someone who’s been bitten is our colleague.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“I’m sorry, AJ, it’s the way things are.”

“Save it, doctor.” AJ spat as he stormed out.

************************************************************

Later that night, AJ showed up to the quarantine cages with a handgun tucked into his pants. There was extra security. The guards at the front stopped him, “Sorry, sir. No more traffic through the cages tonight.”

AJ was crushed; she must have told them he was coming. He didn’t think Dr. Harvey would have given him up. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“We really aren’t supposed to say anything about it.”

“I need that information,” AJ pulled out his credentials, “I work in the city lab, those are our specimens.”

“Alright, alright. Some bum came in here earlier and just started popping all the null skulls. He got six of them before we could stop him. They’re cleaning up inside right now.”

AJ was confused, “How did he even get in?”

“He had an ID, must’ve stolen it from someone. Anyway, I guess one of the guards didn’t check it thoroughly enough because they let him through.”

“What’d you do to the guy?”

“We had to take him out. Larry over here popped him,” he motioned at the man standing near the door, “Dumb bastard just wouldn’t stop firing. He kept yelling, ‘Give me my family back!’ It was unreal.”

“Wow…do you have a list of which ones were killed?” AJ asked.

“It’s classified for everyone except the mayor and Dr. Harvey. Sorry about that.”

Something wasn’t adding up, who would be careless enough to let a streety steal their papers? “Ok, thank you…”

“Stan.”

“Thanks, Stan”

Stan said, “Sure thing, sir. Now clear outta here before you get us in trouble.”

Larry grunted.

AJ turned around and walked to Dr. Harvey’s house.

*************************************************************

When he got there, AJ knocked on the door. A few moments later, Dr. Harvey appeared wearing a robe.

“Hello, Dr. Harvey.” AJ said, “Did you hear about the quarantine cages?”

“Yes, yes, it’s a terrible tragedy.” She didn’t look too broken up about it.

“Was Caleb one of the occupants that were killed?”

“I’m really not allowed to say. Mayor Jenkins classified the information immediately.”

“Classified, right. Did you do get that man to do that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about AJ and it is unwise to level accusations at your superiors without proof. See you in the lab tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Dr. Harvey closed the door.

*************************************************************

The day before he was to leave, there was a transfer of infected. There were only two. Caleb was not in the group. AJ was relieved.

Dr. Harvey was busy checking them in, and making sure all the proper forms were filed and approved. He walked over to her. “Looks like Caleb didn’t make it that night,” he said.

“Looks that way,” she responded curtly.

“Dr. Harvey, I’m leaving tomorrow and I just want to say, I know it was you that got the man in. No one is careless enough to leave those kinds of credentials just lying around where anyone could find them.”

Dr. Harvey stopped writing and looked at him, “I told you the other night, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

AJ continued, “I went there that night with a gun. I was going to do it myself. You saved my life.”

“Well I’m glad that someone else could take the bullet for you.”

“I feel really badly about that.”

“Look, AJ. If someone had to die that night, I’m glad it wasn’t you. But you really need to reconsider the work you’re doing if you can’t separate yourself from it.”

“But you couldn’t either. You couldn’t let me go and get myself killed.”

“You give me too much credit, AJ. I told you, I didn’t do anything and you’ll never hear me say otherwise so just stop trying to get me to admit something and get back to work or I’ll kill you myself and then that man at the cages died for nothing. Have you made all the preparations for Exploration One?”

“Yes, I’ve got a zombo protection suit and a sawed off. We’ll also be—“

“Wait. Zombo protection suit?”

“Yeah, that’s what the scavengers who collect the materials for the suits call them.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, I just go by what they tell me. We’ll also be carrying several sterilized collection jars. I have a full biology kit, five notebooks, twenty pencils and a razor to sharpen them with. If I realize I don’t have something that I need, we’ll bring it the next time out.”

“Ok, if you meet anyone else out there, be sure to question them, but be careful, they could be carriers.”

“I know, I know. I’ve got it all.”

“AJ, as long as your heart is in it, we need you here, so get out of the waste in one piece, alright? Watch your back.”

“I will Dr. Harvey. Thank you. For everything. See you on the other side.”