Life Among The Dead (29 page)

The gauze fuse won’t stay ignited. The white fabric only blackens and extinguishes itself. Everyone in the group is terrified. One man screams for someone to save his wife. The zombies below them are moaning and reaching greedily for the bounty that is before them.

Dan figures he needs some sort of accelerant to get his wick to burn properly. He needs the flame to burn into the bottle that he had filled pellets of black powder and primers. The strand of gauze is getting dangerously short as he keeps trying. Soon he will have to give it up for fear of the bomb blowing up in his hands.

The wick is to the rubber nipple Dan had torn off with his teeth. He can’t try to light it again. He searches the area for another option. He needs to do something to get the dead away from the bus. He needs a miracle.

The ground shakes and the steel hand of God saves the day again. The claw punches outward smashing into the corpses, crushing them against the concrete.

57

Beyond the wall built by the city to dampen the sounds that once emanated from the industrial park, one lone machinist mans her machine from the inside.

Cynthia St. Clair is uncomfortable. For hours she has tried to stay quiet in the darkness, sitting on the conveyor belt on the bottom of her lathe. The belt has long been still since the power had gone out. Its purpose is to keep the machine clear of the metal chips left during the machining process.

Various tools that extend from the machine’s turret poke her in her head and get tangled in her hair. Unknown fluids drip down on her from the ceiling of the cramped space. She had given up on the idea of staying dry in her hiding place a while ago. Steel chips feel like sand on her clothes and skin. They adhere to her by the thick sludge that coats pretty much everything in the shop. It is a gelatinous mixture of old coolant and lubricant oils.

Ordinarily, she would be home by this time. She should have gone home hours ago. She works third shift and would have been showered and had a nice meal by now. She isn’t sure what time it is exactly, but knows she should be in bed. She typically falls asleep watching television after giving her kids their breakfast. Not today.

Most of the first shift had called in or just didn’t show up at all. At least the guy who was supposed to relieve her had a good excuse. His National Guard unit was called up. The supervisor asked if she wouldn’t mind staying a few extra hours. Being a single mom she could use the overtime. Besides, she’s on the boss’s shit list and had to make amends.

The factory Cynthia works in makes parts for tractors. Every tractor in America uses at least one of their pieces. Each of these pieces must be stamped with a short code for accountability. From the stamp someone can tell who made the part and when. A few weeks back Cynthia had a bad day; her kids were in trouble at school, yet another guy had dumped her, and she was having severe menstrual cramps.

“
Legs,” The supervisor had said. She hates when he called her that. “You stamped these parts upside down.”

She was shown a pallet of work she had done. Each piece was in fact stamped incorrectly, forty-eight in all.

“
I need you to fix ‘em.” He commanded her. She would now have to bend over and pound out the old numbers, and then re-stamp them, all while running her three machines. On top of this she would have an estimated four or five guys gawking at her butt and making comments. She lost it. The numbers were there and in the proper sequence, just upside down.

“
What the fuck for?” She snapped in reply. “The people who buy this shit can’t read.”

Saying she would stay late this morning was a good enough peace offering. She called her brood and told them to brush their teeth and get their homework done. Not long after that call, everyone went insane.

It started with Dillon, one of the few people on first to actually show up. He arrived with a blood soaked bandage on his forearm that he said was from a crazed stripper. He regaled the men in the plant with the tale. Cynthia was spared the story because of her gender. He would hush as she came around. The factory had just had a seminar on sexual harassment. She appreciated the reduction in jokes at her expense, and the grimy hands that would grab her ass. She did miss hearing the sordid stories though.

Dillon had tried to cut out early, complaining about horrible nausea and dizziness. The supervisor, who also had to stay, told him to ‘man up’. The next thing she knew Dillon was tearing the throat out of some new guy with his teeth.

She never learned the guy’s name. In places like this you don’t bother until the person has been there passed their ninety day probation. The turnover rate is just too high to get to know people. The new guy proceeded to bite a girl from the office. Everyone started going nuts after that.

Before all the insanity, the radio had mentioned a riot and suggested people stay indoors. Before the power went off, she had heard the guy on the radio advise people to avoid anyone who has a bite wound.

“
What the fuck did that stripper have?”

58

Zombies are reduced to crumpled heaps of limbs and gore as the shovel pounds down upon them. It scrapes the ground, dragging the bodies towards the machine’s giant treads so they can be run over. Dan waves to the driver.

“
Who is that?” Heather asks.

“
Our knight in duct tape armor.” He shakes his head. Beyond that he doesn’t know who the man is. Dan takes his son from Heather’s arms and helps her to the steel ladder. Some of the others are leaping off of the platform trying to gain entry into the shuttle.

Dan helps all the women who have recently delivered babies down the ladder since jumping isn’t an option for them. He watches over his shoulder to make sure his wife and son have gotten in.

The man with the shotgun is left alone at the door, abandoned by his assistant. The older gentleman is struggling to keep the doors shut. Dan can see the double doors are being pushed outward at a slight angle.

The last mother is off the platform and on her way to the bus. Dan gives her a head start before he looks back and yells to the man.

“
C’mon!” He leaps from the slab and runs to the passenger vehicle.

The man leaves the doors and vaults off the loading dock as they explode outward. Clumsy corpses pour out through the opening. The sudden loss of balance spills them out like Pick-up Sticks. The man lands harshly, twisting his leg. Dan drags him to the bus and loads him in.

The engine is idling with the nurse behind the wheel. They back away from the dock as the dead start to fall from it. The vehicle is crammed with passengers and cargo as the nurse turns sharply to the left.

“
Take a right and head through the industrial park.” Dan instructs.

He looks back to the yellow steam shovel that batters the pursuing zombies. He knows the man operating it can’t see him; he waves a final farewell anyway.

59

The flood of corpses ceases. Oz has pounded the last one into a paste of human effluence.

“
Now what do I do?” He asks himself, considering his options.
I could go to the mall, or the zoo.
He wants to find a place that has a ton of these bastards.

He has the urge to return to a church he had passed earlier. He still wants to tear it to splinters while whistling “Knocking on heaven’s door.” He is angry with any God that would allow such an awful thing to happen in the world. He hates any God who would let such a thing happen to nice kids like Toby.

The only thing that prevents the Janitor from demolishing the house of worship is the fact that people may have sought refuge there.
Taking away some poor fool’s sanctuary would make me no better than God,
Oz considers. He did however knock over a large wooden cross that was complete with a highly detailed visage of Christ. The Son of God was affixed to the crucifix in perpetual agony.

“
Hang in there, kitten.” He had told the wooden prophet as he drove back to the hospital. “It’s almost Friday.”

The gas gauge is currently at a quarter of a tank. He decides he had better save his fuel until he figures out his next move. The engine dies as he turns the key back. Oz looks around at the destroyed bodies of the dead and ponders his future. He is getting hungry. The horror doesn’t seem to faze him. He surveys the road kill and thinks,
the insides of people aren’t supposed to be that bright and colorful.

“
Lunch would be good.” He says to himself. Now that the engine is silent he believes he hears something. Not moaning, more like a muffled scream and banging.

Oz follows his ears, trying to pinpoint the source. He looks up, having to lean out of the cab to peer around the roof just as a window above breaks outward. Tiny pieces of glass shower down upon him. He is fast enough to duck back inside as the razor sharp shards tinkle to the pavement and off the steel of his machinery. He looks again and sees a man waving a white bed sheet out through the open window.

“
Hmm.” Oz thinks.
My to-do list is filling up fast.
He hops out of the cabin and walks through the zombie mush. The janitor kicks aside large pieces of the bodies as he strolls over to a pickup truck that’s full of lumber and parked under the loading dock.

Among the pile of boards Oz sees a stainless steel toolbox. Inside he finds a three-foot wrench that weighs a good twenty-five pounds.

He climbs onto the platform and heads for the stairs. It looked like the man is on the fourth floor. Oz knows he can probably use the service halls to reach him.

In the stairwell the large man sees the bodies of a woman and her child. Their flesh is almost entirely gone, as if they have been there for years instead of what he figures to be just minutes. He takes the stairs three at a time.

“
I fucking hate zombies.”

60

Cynthia is getting claustrophobic inside her machine. Her head rests on the slimy spindle as she wallows in a timeless void. She wants to be home.
The kids must be wondering where I am,
she thinks. She has to leave sooner or later.

The sliding door slowly opens on its rollers. It is almost completely black in the factory since the emergency lights are hardly helpful. The filthy woman stands on the rubber mats that cover the floor of her machine cell. Her legs are stiff and it hurts to straighten them. Blood is rushing through her veins and capillaries freely now with a tingling sensation.

Her first steps are slow as she blindly searches her workbench for her flashlight. The tingle in her legs grows to a numb tightening feeling. She finds her LED light and twists the head.

The light is so blinding it hurts her eyes and she must look away for a moment. As her eyes adjust she can see her co-workers entering her cell. She turns to bolt the other way, but her legs are asleep from being cramped for so long.

Cynthia falls to the worn, black mats she has spent the past five years walking on. Pins and needles burn in her paralyzed legs. She crawls away from the other machinists that groan as they pursue her.

Using mostly her arms she is able to leave her station and exit out into the main storage area. Her light reveals the bins and boxes that are stacked hazardously. She can see a narrow alley between the stacks that she is trying to get to. She is crawling along bare concrete now. Her legs are slowly becoming useful again as she glances back at her one-time colleagues. Their arms are outstretched as they walk through her section.

On her feet, she squeezes into the narrow space as fast as she can. The improper stacking technique has left portions of the boxes jutting out into the gap. She has to dodge and lean around them, limping deeper into the alley. She knows only a few of them will be able to follow her thin body through this. The majority of them are too big to fit.

Cynthia looks back. Her light shines on them, paused at the opening, reaching in for her. A figure even smaller than herself has entered and is closing in. It’s Hilda, one of the office women. She squeezes in after Cynthia. The old woman’s gray wig catches on one of the boxes and remains behind, hovering in space. The bald lady doesn’t seem to mind and just continues.

Cynthia is as far as she can go, the passage dead ends at the wall. She looks upwards and knows it is the only way. Luckily, her legs have regained feeling. The flashlight goes into her mouth as she places her limbs on either side of the canyon and starts to climb. She pushes outward, heading up like a rock climber in a crevasse. She notices the more altitude she gains the more the boxes to her left seem to lean. She isn’t concerned about that right now. All she wants to do is get out of old Hilda’s reach.

The dead office assistant manages to get a hold of one of her prey’s ankles. Cynthia kicks out, freeing herself. She needs to get higher, now the widening of the boxes frightens her. She doesn’t want the fifteen-foot stack to topple.

The lone survivor is almost to the top. Her arms are nearly to their full extension.
Why are these boxes so light,
she ponders? The wooden boxes are being pushed outward and she doesn’t see how it is possible since they should be full of raw steel castings.

She has no choice but to try and get both of her hands onto the heavier side of the chasm. Her right hand is holding onto the rim of a steel bin. That stack isn’t moving one bit. Cynthia releases her grip on the wooden boxes and brings her hand to the sturdy side.