LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (37 page)

She’s nocking an arrow, already prepping for what needs to be done. The only thing that I can glean from what he said was how he said it. He was shouting it very loudly. Whoever he’s calling to for back up is a long ways off. They’re going to be here in maybe a minute or more if I’m lucky—if Lindsay’s lucky. She’s gearing up for a fight, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Run for it, Lindsay,” I hiss at her. “I can hold the door for a while and I’ll keep them busy while you get some distance.”

“Fuck you, Charlie,” she shakes her head, almost laughing. “You’re not sacrificing yourself on this one.”

“Lindsay, there’s no time,” I squeeze her arm. “Grab your pack and go. I’ll hold them off.”

“This isn’t an eighties movie, Charlie,” She wrenches her arm free from my grasp, leaning her body heavily against the door frame. “On the count of three, I want you to swing open the door and I’ll put an arrow through his eye. That’ll shut him up and then we can both go together. Those chicken-shits will see that I have a bow and they’ll back off for a while and while they’re doing that, we’ll slip out through the back. Got it?”

It’s not a half bad plan. I nod to her and she smiles. Leaning over, I feel her lips on mine. It’s a soft, sweet kiss. It’s passionate, but it’s definitely aware of the situation. She leans back and smiles, looking deep into my eyes while she takes in a deep breath and readies herself for the shot.

“One,” she whispers.

My hands are sweating, but I know what needs to be done. Swing open the door and she kills him. I reach my hand down to the mail slot and wrap my fingers around the frame. She looks down at the ground and is still readying herself. She’s running out of arrows and there’s only one shot at this. I have absolute faith that she’s going to make the shot.

“Tw—” Suddenly her eyes widen and I don’t understand.

I follow her eyes to the corridor, expecting them to be descending upon us from the back, but there’s nothing but shadow and darkness in the hallway. Looking back at her, she’s no longer looking down the hallway. Her head has slumped to her belly where a pool of crimson is swelling across her shirt and a glistening point of a long blade is sticking a half inch out of her perfectly sculpted abs. I look at the wound and feel my stomach stretching, my mind screaming, and my whole body goes numb. That fucker’s killed Lindsay.

The blade slips back inside of her, like a bird flying away in a flash. Suddenly there’s a whole lot more blood and Lindsay’s hands are shaking as her bow and arrow drop from them, cascading and clattering against the floor as her trembling hands reach for the wound, but never quite find it. Her fingers and palms sort of just hover over the wound like hummingbirds over a rose. With quivering lips, she’s trying to say something, but nothing is coming out and all I can do is try and manage the millions of whirling thoughts forming a maelstrom inside my brain right now. I don’t get it. How did this happen? How is this possible? She was just fine a second ago.

Taking a weak step away from the door, blood trickles down from her shirt and onto her pants, pattering against the floor before she slumps against the wall, trying to brace herself. It’s then that I hear the laughing on the other side of the door. The sudden whoop of victory that the zealot lets out. He’s retracted his blade. He knows that he’s struck flesh and that he’s struck true. I don’t think he has a clue that there’s someone still in the house. He has no idea that I’m still here.

I throw open the door with a single, loud swing, my fingers wrapping around the shattered door where there should have been a handle, where the blade punched through my close and dearest friend. The door flings wide and the man isn’t even looking at me. He’s got his back turned while he examines his blade in his torchlight. Beyond him, up the street, there are more torches that suggest to me that our situation is significantly more dire than we previously anticipated. They’re coming for us.

I do not wait for the man to turn around. I raise my machete and I slash downwards in a diagonal across his back once, letting the blade’s momentum slash across his flesh leaving a long, jagged wound. Raising the blade again, ferociously fast, I slash diagonally again, making a bloody, savage X across his flesh. The man drops his torch and his long blade. They clatter against the concrete of the porch while he lets out a long wheeze, the adrenaline of the situation coursing through his body, sending him into shock. I kick him hard in the lower back, with all the strength I have. I can hear his back break, but I can’t feel it through the sole of my shoe. It’s a pity. I wish I could. He flies off the steps and lands face first, hard into the sidewalk with a sickening impact that makes me think that he just broke every bone in his face. He tries lifting up his head and I see the pool of growing blood. Taking each of the steps with dark hatred, I reach down and scoop up his torch, holding it in my hand like a mace, ready to end him.

The man is gurgling, trying to speak through a mouth full of broken teeth, but I can’t make out a single word that he’s trying to say. Instead, I lower the glowing head of the torch and let the flames lick his back. His bloody, white jacket slowly begins to ignite. The man squirms, feeding the hungry flames as they begin to climb, spreading out across his back, charring his white wool and spreading like a disease. His body is too broken for him to fight it. Instead. He gets to suffer. He gets to let the flames feast on him. His screams are bloodcurdling, or they might have been once upon a time. His screams are music to my ears. I walk away from him. Letting him burn. I throw the torch onto the roof of the neighboring house, hoping that the building will catch fire. If I’m lucky, this whole damn city will burn to the ground.

The fanatics down the street have stopped coming this way, but I know they’ll only wait for a moment. Soon they’ll start running to give a merciful death to their savage brother. Writhing and thrashing on the walkway, the zealot gets no mercy from me. He’s screaming as loud as he can, rolling over and trying to kill the flames that are now all over him. I know he’s in serious trouble, because he smells like barbeque. Rushing up the steps, I close the door, barely muffling the bastard’s screams behind it.

Lindsay is slumped against the wall, her skin already looking too pale for comfort while she keeps pressure on the wound, but she’s bleeding from two areas. Damn that asshole. I get behind the couch and shove it in front of the door, giving us some form of a barricade against the inevitable charge of those fuckers. I make sure the couch is in place and I pick up the blanket, wadding it up into a ball and crouching down next to Lindsay. She’s crying silently as her lips tremble. Reaching behind her, I press the blanket against her back and slowly lift her to her feet, just enough so I can swivel her onto the couch.

“It’s okay, Lindsay,” I say to her, trying to give her some form of comfort, but there’s nothing I can do. Grabbing my pack, I rip it open and pull out the clear plastic wrap from the tattoo parlor, the gauze, anything.

“No,” Lindsay shakes her head, shoving my hand away. “Save it.”

“Keep still,” I tell her. “I’m going to wrap you up with plastic and we’re going to get out of here. I’m going to get you to a damn tattoo parlor, just like you did for me. I’m going to fix you up as good as new, Lindsay.”

“No, Charlie,” she shakes her head. “Charlie, I can’t.” She’s crying and looking at her stomach. “Oh God, Charlie.”

“I know.” I grab her head and pull her close, hugging her and feeling her crying into my shoulder.

Outside, torchlight is beginning to swell and gather. The zealots are near. They’re shouting and calling out for us. They’re calling for us to surrender ourselves to judgment and the repentance that only fire will offer us. I want to burn every goddamn one of them. I want to watch this whole damn city go up like a giant pyre, just like Detroit had. Every one of these murderous bastards can embrace their repentance.

There are others out there as well, shouting for buckets and water, to try and put out the flames that are growing on the neighbor’s house. I can see the warm glow in the room next to us. I hate that they’re intelligent—that they’re organized. They’re coming for us. It’s only a matter of time. God, I wish I had my hand back. I could use her bow. I could kill some of them before I have to pull out my machete and go to work. Lindsay is taking quick, sharp breaths. It’s not good, but she’s leaning back into the couch, looking at me.

“I’m sorry I left you,” she says to me.

“There’s no need to apologize,” I shake my head. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known. And you never could stand to be away from me.” She smiles and laughs, but it’s too painful and I learn my lesson from it as she winces in agony. “God, I’m so sorry, Lindsay,” I shake my head and kiss her lips. I can taste the blood in her mouth. “I wish you’d never found me. I wish you were still in Bellsbrook. I wish I had died in that street. Better that than this.”

“No, Charlie,” she shakes her head and puts a hand on my chest. “Say it, Charlie.”

I look at her and I know exactly what she wants me to say. It’s nothing. It’s three words and they mean absolutely nothing right now; at the precipice of death, what do emotions and sentimental statements mean? They mean comfort. They mean everything. I look at her and see that there is peace in her eyes. She doesn’t want it. She’s a fighter. She’s always been a brawler, clawing and trying her hardest to grasp to life and keep it with her. I’ve never met someone as tenacious and vigilant at keeping alive than her. But that look in her eyes is haunting. She’s given up the fight. She’s surrendered to death and that release is all that matters. She has one foot outside of the door and before she parts, she wants to get one final word in.

“Just tell me once that you love me, Charlie.” She shakes her head and tries to laugh it off weakly as if it’s frivolous or childish, but no one here is thinking that. “I don’t even care if it’s a lie. Just kiss me and tell me that you love me.”

“Lindsay, you can make it,” I tell her. “We can wrap you up, keep the blood in you that way. We can find a car and get to Florida and I will tell you all of that on the beach. Stay with me, Lindsay. Just stay with me.”

“It’s over, Charlie.” Tears burn down her cheek and I see them falling on her face like rain. I realize that it’s me crying, not her. “Just say it.”

I pull her close and I kiss her with the force of a passionate earthquake. My mouth presses against her warm lips and they quiver, enjoying each other like old friends embracing after a long separation. I kiss her again and I feel her lips part, but she doesn’t press her tongue to mine. Her mouth is full of blood and she knows it. But it doesn’t stop me. I don’t care. This is the end. I might as well show her how much she really did matter. As I pull away, there’s a weak smile on her lips. I smile back at her.

“I love you, Lindsay Walker.” I say her last name for the first time ever. It’s written on the inside of her pack. She smiles at the uttering of her name. “I love you more than I could ever show you.” My words are genuine. They are true. She can feel the magnitude of the words and her smile grows. “You will not be forgotten and you are not leaving this world alone. Damn, it’s going to be terrible here without you.”

“Sucks to be you,” she smiles softly. Her eyes are full of determination. I pray to whatever heartless deity is still out there that she wants me to wrap her. I pray that she wants me to help her fight, but she doesn’t. “You have to go now, Charlie.”

“No, I’ll stay with you,” I tell her. “I’m not letting those bastards take you.”

“Charlie, now is your chance,” she shakes her head. “For once in your damn life, just do what I say.”

I look at her and know that she’s right. More will be coming. More and more will be filing down the streets and through the alleys to get their friends vengeance for what we did to them. If I don’t go now, I’m dead with her. But I can’t leave her. I can’t abandon my one friend in this wretched, horrible world. What if the girls aren’t alive? What if Lindsay is my last true hope for life and sanity in this world? What then? I look at her and I know that I’m wrong. If I stay here with her, she will hate me and her last thoughts in this world should be valiant and noble. She has earned that. She has earned the right to die as a hero.

I pull her bow over with my foot and grab her arrow. She takes the bow with a shaking, pale hand and nocks her arrow with a determined look on her face. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, listening to the shouts and orders behind us, banging at the door violently and without mercy. I don’t want to leave her. “I love you, Charlie,” she says quietly.

“I love you, Lindsay,” I answer.

Leaving Lindsay is the single hardest thing that I have ever done. It is harder than when I had to tell my girls that their mother had died. It is harder than hearing that the woman I love and adore has died and that I am now a widower with two daughters. No, leaving Lindsay is much harder. Lindsay is the last light in the world and I’m feeling her presence extinguish all around me as I throw open the back door and look into the face of a zealot. He looks at me with surprise and horror. I don’t remember much about killing him. All I remember is thinking how horrible life is going to be now. How much I have truly lost and how alone I truly am. Securing my pack over my other shoulder, I keep moving.

I hear glass shatter and the faint twang of the bowstring before a loud, painful scream fills the air. As for Lindsay, I don’t ever hear her scream. I don’t ever hear her call out or beg for mercy. She dies with the defiant dignity with which she lived. I hop the back fence and land hard in the neighboring house’s dead, dirt lawn. Running as fast as I can, I hear the shouts of the others demanding that I come out of the house and surrender. They still don’t know I’m gone. I keep running. I keep running until I’m in an alley heading farther and farther south. I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is that I’m alone. I’m alone in a very dark and terrible city, heading south, praying that I find my daughters. Praying that all of this will not have been in vain.

-End