Holiday of the Dead (19 page)

The few survivors that were left at Donovan's Wake were barely holding on, and the growing numbers of the undead only made their hopes fade like the civilization they were trying to hold on to.

Brae didn't know who Donovan was, or why this place was his namesake, and it really didn't matter. All that he cared about now was helping the others so they could get a convoy out, past the gates and into the city to search for supplies.

The engines of the trucks rev in unison as the front gate is opened unleashing the city plough out into the mounds of the undead that litter the streets. Bodies deflect from the thick steel blades on the front of the truck, pushed to the side like so much waste. Popping body parts fill the air with a stench both vile and unrelenting as the trucks flatten flesh and bone on their way out of the compound.

Mitch hits the throttle, catching up to the other two trucks as they jerk wildly, bouncing over fallen bodies, slowly crushing them beneath the tread of their tires.

The engine whines as Mitch floats the gears of the old Kenworth, gaining speed as the tires send bloody gore out of the fender wells, misting the windows with a light film.

"Damn, these bastards sure are messy," Mitch pulls deeply on the cigar, filling the air with smoke from his methodical exhale.

The convoy takes a tight, right hand turn into the warehouse district, speeding up once the corner is made.

A gravelly voice comes through the radio, "It's going to be three stop signs on the right, don't bother with the gate, just run it through."

Brae replies, "Were right behind you, Mark."

Most of the lettering has fallen off the face of the building, revealing W** *art **per S*ore in between scorch marks.

The walkie-talkie squawks to life, "Brae and Mitch back into bay 4, Ed, back into bay 2. We'll get in and open the doors. Make sure the trailers are tight against the building, we don't want any repeats of last time."

"Roger," Brae replies.

"And stop calling me Roger," comes the response, causing Mitch to cough out a cloud of smoke, unable to hold back his laughter.

The snow plough stops in front of one of the side entrances to the warehouse and Mark jumps out, shotgun raised, salt and pepper hair reflecting in the sun. Taking aim at the door, he pulls the trigger, blasting a hole the size of a fist through the metal surface. From behind him, the parking brake of the plough is engaged, sending out a rush of air behind the cab, accompanied by a puff of dust.

Ed has already made contact with the loading bay as Mitch begins backing the truck into position. The trailer slams hard against the bumpers fastened to the wall, startling Brae with the sound of twisting steel and screeching rubber.

Brae is out of the truck and on top of the hood as soon as he feels the impact. Rifle poised, he fires into a small crowd of the undead. With a loud crack, the bullet hits home. The creature stops mid-stride, thrown to the ground in a heap. Its head hits the pavement like a silent prayer in the middle of a battle field. Levelling the rifle again, Brae puts a bead on another pus bag. As he exhales, he pulls the trigger. What used to be a nurse is now but a fragmented face, falling prone to the asphalt, tripping one of the other meat sacks behind her. Like a chain reaction, the other brainless wonders fall suit until all five are on the ground, wallowing in the remains of the first two.

"We’re good," Brae yells before Mitch even has a chance to get the door of the rig open.

"Damn, boy. You sure can shoot!" Mitch yells, heading to the door, right behind Ed.

Brae falls to his ass and scoots off the hood, landing firmly on his feet. Like a madman, he sprints to the door, cut off by a pus bag, dressed in a dishevelled suit and tie. Before he can raise his rifle the creature’s head explodes, sending a torrent of brain and bone across the pavement next to it.

As the body falls, it reveals a bent moustache smiling back at him.

"We're all going to die in the end, I guess it's just not your time, kid," Mitch states, lowering the smoking revolver to his side.

Brae shakes off the shock, high-tailing it into the warehouse, followed by Mitch who pulls the door closed, locking it with a pin attached to the bottom, firmly kicking it into place.

A series of slams hit the outside of the door like hail on a tin roof. Brae recoils as he lifts his rifle to eye level, panicked by the sudden sound.

"Unless they learn how to pull, they're not getting in," patting Brae on the shoulder as he walks by, Mitch heads over to the rest of the group.

A week’s worth of beard growth moves as Mark's jaw drops, saying, "Looks like we've hit the mother load." He stares at the stacks of pallets positioned floor to ceiling in nearly 10,000 square feet of warehouse. "OK, Jesse, you and Ed go grab one of those pallet jacks and start loading the trucks. Mitch, come with me, we're going to find out if this place has a pharmacy."

Brae, still somewhat in shock, "Boss, what should I do?"

"Well, I suppose you can keep staring at the door, or help load the trucks." Mark nods his head before turning, passing through the far door, vanishing into the sales floor beyond.

Tossing his rifle over his shoulder, Brae walks over to Ed, who is inspecting one of the pallets.

"Canned meat. Thank God I lost my taste buds months ago," Ed states shaking his head.

Jesse walks over to the far end of the warehouse in search of a pallet jack while Brae and Ed sort through the rows of boxes. A crash breaks their concentration and they run off after Jesse who is on the ground, struggling with one of the undead who has tackled him to the floor, pinning him to the spot.

Ed is the first to react, pulling his pistol, as a large piece of flesh is pulled free from Jesse's neck. His scream is terrible, only drowned out by the report of the gun. The creature’s head snaps back so it's looking straight up like it's asking for a final reprieve from some higher power. Its body falls limp to the side, head bouncing off the cement floor like a deflated ball.

Brae pushes the creature’s legs off Jesse to get a better look at the wound. Muscle tissue is exposed beyond a small scrap of skin, torn and twisted with teeth marks around the edges. Ed rips a piece from his shirt and applies pressure to the wound as Mark and Mitch run up from behind.

"Christ, wasn't anyone watching his back?" Mark exclaims, kneeling down beside Jesse who has a blood bubble gurgling up at the edge of his mouth.

Jesse tries to talk, but only air escapes as his eyes roll to the back of his head, prompting Mark to pull his side arm and shoot him between the eyes.

"Damn it, you have to watch out for each other! No more fuck ups. Brae, watch Ed's ass and go get the damn pallet jack. Let's get this shit done and get the fuck out of here," he yells, clearly unnerved.

"Boss, I'm sorry about your …" Mitch is cut off before he can continue.

"Let's just get the supplies and go."

Mitch and Mark head back into the sales floor to retrieve supplies and as much first aid as they can fit in a couple of packs that they heist from a display on their way through the store.

Brae and Ed load up as much food as they can pack into the trailers, leaving the doors open to escape through the small hatches at the top while waiting for the others to return.

"I should have been watching out for Jesse," Brae exclaims, holding his head in his hands as he sits on the floor, cross legged.

Ed stares down at him. "We both fucked up, you can't blame yourself for a mistake that it took two of us to make," he shakes his head. "You can't take back what has already happened."

Mark and Mitch return with several packs, loaded to bursting, and throw them into the trailer.

Turning back to Brae, Mark can see the torment in his face. "Listen, kid, it could have happened to any one of us, you're not the only one to blame. We're all in this together, and hell, I could have probably been watching out too."

Looking through the hole left by the shotgun blast, Mark peers through the door, "Fuck, there's too many of them out there, I'm not going to be able to get to the plough." Looking back at Ed, he continues, "I guess I'll be catching a ride with you."

From inside the trailers, each group of men, stationed at the opposing trucks, close the doors, leaving the warehouse bays open to the elements.

Escaping through the roof hatch, using the crates as a ladder, Brae peers out at the sea of the undead that have gathered around the trucks. There are hundreds of them, shoulder to shoulder, packed in tightly against the vehicles, leaving little room for escape.

Brae blows out a breath of panic from his lungs, trying to calm himself. It looks like he is testing the temperature of a pool as he reluctantly steps down onto the mirror frame, sliding his other foot onto the edge of the door.

He hears screaming, followed by a series of shots, just above his head. Sliding into the cab backwards, he can see Mitch firing towards the other truck as he feels something tug at his hair. He pulls hard, and one of his dreads is yanked free, clutched tightly in the hand of one of the creatures. Its nudity takes Brae back a bit as he scans the waste between its legs, realizing the thing had once been a man, but now resembles a butchers experiment gone wrong. He steadies himself, sliding fully into the cab, and looks past the monstrosity to see Ed slip from the roof of the other truck, landing, back first into the crowd of hungry hands.

Mark fires madly into the crowd. Emptying the shotgun, he pulls his side arm, levelling it at the newly formed horde that fills in the space where the others had stood.

Brae can't see what’s happening on the other side of the truck where Ed landed, but the screams are more than enough to assault his imagination. What he does see is Mark empty his pistol and jump into the crowd after Ed, madness overtaking him.

He sees Mitch’s leg on the door, followed by the other, gracefully sliding into the cab like he's done it a million times before.

The big rig roars to life as Mitch hits the ignition and slips it into gear. Releasing the clutch, he floats it into second gear, making the rig gain speed.

"Wait, what about Mark?" Brae's alarm is obvious.

Mitch points toward the other truck as they pass the gore, saying nothing. Brae opens his window, throwing up along the truck, spewing bile and chunks out against a few of the straggling undead.

"God, why did he do it?" Brae asks, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"Kid, not everyone is cut out to accept fate. He just lost it."

Solemn, Brae eases back into his seat, staring at the ceiling of the cab with his hand over his mouth. He had befriended Mark the first day he waded through the spent bodies of the dead and made his way into the compound. It was hard to think of him as gone, hard to face the fact that he would never see him again.

If he could count how many people he had lost along the way, he would probably curl up in a tight little ball on his bed at the compound and never move again. He does his best to push those memories out of his head, to never think of the shitty hand life had dealt him. It was always better to forget. It was always better to repress those memories and get on with the fight for survival, but it didn't make it any less painful.

With a deep exhale, Brae looks out at the road ahead, watching the random undead as they pass by. It's hard to believe those things were ever human. That they, just like him, had lost loved ones, had endured the sorrow of the fallen.

"Look at them," Mitch points out at a random corpse, walking in circles at the edge of the street.

"What about them?"

"They’re so fucking pointless. That's how it ends, no matter who you are, that's how we all end up. But you can never think for a moment that they are people, you hear me?"

"Mitch, they are people . . . or were, at least."

"Who they were doesn't matter, it's what they are now, and what they are now would sooner chew off your face than let you pass by."

The truck tilts dangerously as Mitch makes the next turn, holding tightly to the wheel, he pulls the vehicle through, glancing off of a wrecked passenger car that is half way out into the street.

"Alright, we don't have the plough, so it's going to get bumpy when we start getting close," Mitch breaks the silence. Pointing out the inevitable, "You might want to hold on."

With that, the rig begins to bounce, losing traction on the gore, and sending up chunks of pulp once the tires grab asphalt. Brae gains flight several times as the air ride seat overcompensates against the unnatural road conditions, jogging him back and forth along the cushion.

Terror falls over Brae's eyes as he sees the compound coming into view, "What the fuck?"