Waiting to Die (Book 2): Wasting Away Read online

  Sometimes, I felt like I was witnessing this all from afar, like it hadn’t really happened. It was as if I would suddenly wake up and my wife would be standing above me, telling me that breakfast was ready. She would wear that smile that melted away my cares and give me the want to rise and make the most out of the dawning day. I would see the twinkle in her eye and be at peace with my way in life.

  But those memories were quick to dissolve when the howling awakened me from my stupor.

  They came from the cracks and crevices, rooted up from the shadows like nightmare. There was hunger in their rancid voices, a hunger exclusive to only them. The slap of their decomposed footfalls echoed from building to building, mustering a strange reverberation. The way they shambled gave the sound of their dragging feet a type hollow throng as if they were coming from everywhere all at once.

  I took off past the houses, winding along the sidewalk. My breath was quick and shallow, racing along with my heart and filtering into my ears like the noise from some far off dream.

  I could hear them grinding their teeth behind me. Their gurgling rasps bloated out in syncopated rhythm with my own footfalls. I cut a corner through a side path between two houses and emerged into the back yard of an abandoned home. At the far side of the yard, I hopped the fence into the property, leaving the dead to claw at the chain link that divided the two.

  With my heart still racing, I hurled myself from yard to yard, jumping each fence that blocked my way.

  I kept up my pace until I could no longer hear their guttural moans. The pangs in my stomach churned and kept me focused. I used my hunger as a weapon, dividing the gap between them and me. I thought that this must be the way that they feel, always hungry, always persistent, always searching for that thing that will make the pain subside. The tingle in my body from that hunger urged me forward. It kept my muscles from tightening, yet violated my every move.

  It was either adrenalin or focus that kept me moving, I wasn’t sure which. Whatever the fuel was, I managed to keep running. I ran through the pain of my blistering feet. I ran for everything I was worth. I ran for fear and life and selfishness. I ran for survival.

  Streets intersected, merged, developed into urban sprawl and finally laid way to high rises and skyscrapers.

  My muscles began to cramp and knot, sending pain all through my body, and I was forced to slow to a limp. I panted and heaved, but kept myself moving. I no longer heard the dead. Windswept buildings cried above me. The utter silence, the unnerving wheeze of empty city streets moaned in lonely defiance. A crumbled piece of newsprint fluttered by, dragging itself along the asphalt.

  I crept up through wide, sprawling streets, through the decay that littered the pavement; fell from desperate weeks gone by. Soft ash covered the asphalt, swirling with dust devils that corrupted its rest.

  I held my breath as I tiptoed past the bodies; small spaces in between, allowing me to step over the rotten foliage of death as I made my way through bullet casings and spent magazines. From a barricade ahead, I could see the machine guns mounted to concrete rails. Their exterior was showing signs of rust, worn by weather, allowing images to play over in my mind of the massacre that must have unfolded.

  Police cars and military vehicles blocked the way, parked in crisscross patterns to defend the area beyond. Uniformed corpses graced the pavement like wilted flowers, collected and discarded in haste by the folly of war. Rubble was spread out along the sidewalks where it had rained down from buildings, burst out from the seams.

  All I could concentrate on was the unnerving silence in these ruins. The absolute quiet of it all, I felt like the last man standing. Sorrow is such a demanding emotion.

  High above, I could see the bloated remains of a skyscraper, steel beams unfurled from its interior like boney fingers, grasping at the clouds. In the dank silence of the outer rim of the city, the building shivered and cracked. It was a sound of temptation and sorrow; a sound like the weak, gasping for breath.

  A creature dangled from a window ledge above, caught upon the remnants of a broken steel beam. It flailed in the air as if it had something in its sights. It stared down at me and rasped in muted silence, too far away to project its gruesome moan. I looked at it for some time, twisting thirty stories up, swiping out as if I was within its reach.

  I was in awe as I stared at the crumbling buildings. I couldn’t imagine what kind of bomb could have done this.

  How long? I wondered. How long will it dangle there? How long will the body move? How long until it finally falls away to dust?

  I thought of how long it would be before the building finally came crashing down. Would there be any one left to hear it fall?

  I glanced through the open door of a police cruiser at several snapshots taped to the dash. Nestling myself into the driver’s seat, I pondered over the pictures of children, smiling and happy. The fabric beneath me let out a cloud of dust as I sat down. The wisps loosened between my legs and fluttered up toward the window, peppering the photos of the children with specks of decay.

  Time was unforgiving.

  When I looked at the bodies that surrounded me, spent and sprawling on war torn asphalt, the image of that atrocity who took my wife came traipsing into my mind also. I cannot see one without the other. Where there are thoughts of my wife, the putrid façade of that infectious death that swallowed her away from me comes too. Where there is life there is also the promise of death to reclaim it.

  Before leaving, I scoured the cruiser for ammo and any supplies I could find. I wrapped the rounds in lengths of fabric I tore from the bodies on the ground. I wrapped them to keep them quiet. I filled the extra clip for the pistol and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

  A few blocks away, I discovered a camping supply store and nearly cried out in joy. The windows in front were whole and undamaged. The contents inside unspoiled.

  Chapter 7

  “I really need to get going before it gets dark,” I said.

  She nodded and went to the window. “Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Mary slipped a CD into the radio and slowly extended it along the clothes line, threading the set of battery jumpers along as she went. The sound of music widened as the radio slipped out, high above the parched and vacant faces that looked skyward and clawed as if to reach for the notes. There was gravity in the milky calm of their eyes - a look that seemed to breathe the answer to questions that have plagued us for ages. In that moment, staring down at the dead, I saw in them the same expression I had seen when they were alive. I saw thoughtlessness. I saw confusion. I saw the questioning eyes of the multitudes, drawn and feeble, hollow and raged. I saw only empty, vacant eyes.

  I tried to hold the idea as Mary turned to me and told me she was ready. “I’ll watch for you,” she said.

  “Give me an hour,” I told her.

  “Then I will watch for you in an hour,” she said with a quick nod.

  Quickly, we filed along the stairs to the entry. With a dry click, she had the door opened and the sun was exposed through the alcove at the front of the building, shaded slightly from the overhang. The sweet smell of rot, rancid beneath its core, wafted up and tried my courage.

  I peered around the corner and saw the streets were empty.

  “I’ll play the music again in an hour,” she whispered, “and unlock the door for you.”

  I nodded and gazed into her eyes, catching the reflection of the sun as her pupil dilated, constricting into a tiny dot. I reached for her and grazed her arm as I turned and breezed away past the bushes and the tree that graced the front yard.

  The pistol was at my side, neatly tucked into the waistband of my pants. My movements sent the sight into my skin and I adjusted the weapon farther forward and took to a sprint. I could hear the distant moaning like a rumbling in my chest. The knotting sounds shook the ground beneath me and I imagined the earth crumbling beneath my feet. The farther I went, the sounds would not su
bside. The deep, mouthing incoherence of the dead stayed with me and reminded me of what I needed to do. Dead voices shrouded in soft music.

  I slipped past a brick building at the corner of the street and peeked around the edge as a rasp came from over my shoulder. The corpse was on me before I could react. The blackness of its open maw swallowed the light and only bent, jagged teeth remained. I ducked and countered, coming up behind the creature. I pushed the thing forward and it stumbled. I withdrew the pistol from my side and aimed, but I thought better of firing. The sound of the shot would only bring more. I moved to the side as the corpse staggered forward and I clasped it behind the neck, pushing it to the ground. A wheeze escaped as bloated air knocked out from its chest. Like rancid sewage, the breath met my nose and I turned in disgust as I held firm. I grabbed it beneath its chin and twisted. As I struggled, every snap of its spine coiled and I could feel its neck breaking all along my arms. Every crack, every pop ascended through me and finally, the thing went still. It lay slack on the sidewalk and my hands were covered in its waste. I wiped away the slick and nervously checked my surroundings.

  There had only been one, a single straggler, fixated on the moans, making its way to the source. As often as I have been among them, what drove them still eluded me. At times, the sounds of others drew them. At other times, it was as if they were deaf to the calls. I hated their unpredictability. They were chaotic things.

  I calmed myself and took to the next street. According to what I remembered of the map, I was only a block away from the market and the path ahead of me was clear.

  I narrowed the gap and saw the building in the distance. Full length windows stretched across the front of the store. Past a small parking area, I kept low and looked for a way inside. The edge of one of the plate windows was broken, leaving a small gap at the edge of the sill. Tempting fate, I pulled a shard of the glass away and widened the opening. I shook my head at how stupid an idea it was to crawl under a pane of glass that could easily cut me in two. With a deep breath, I slid through as the shard shook with my movements.

  One of them was inside, maybe since the beginning. He could have been anyone. He could have been a survivor looking for food or an employee locked in when everything went to hell. It was hard to tell.

  I sidestepped the creature, grazing the side of its jacket. It let out a mournful moan. It was as if it were begging me to let it eat. I stared at its misery and watched it drag itself forward. I pulled the pistol and pointed it at its head. I watched it waver there, almost entranced.

  I looked into its eyes, just a brief, fleeting glance. I knew what I had to do, but the guilt kept me back, kept me moving away. It had such powerful sadness in its eyes. I breathed deep and it moved forward, arms outstretched.

  As it came closer, I leaned to the side and used my free hand to grab at its jacket. With a healthy wad of fabric in my hands, I tossed it to the floor, tripping it over my leg. I pulled the jacket over its head and wadded the material into a ball above its forehead as it struggled. I placed the pistol into the wadding of jean and grime. Gritting my teeth, I pulled the trigger. A muted snap and the body went limp.

  I left its jacket balled up over its face. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it again. Another deep breath and I stood. I looked around to get my bearings and scoped a set of shelves with canned goods neatly placed in a row. Vegetables and canned meat, fruit cocktail and soup all lined the shelves. With the bag open, I began to swipe the food by the armload into the opening until it was full. I zipped it up and heaved it over my shoulder.

  I went through the rest of the store and filled my pockets with odds and ends. I took off my jacket and made a pouch and stuffed all the water I could carry inside and strung a length of twine from my pocket around it, making a bundle.

  Even as far away as I was, I could still hear the music that Mary played. It was faint and gave me a sense of security. To know there was someone out there waiting for me brought a happiness I hadn’t known in a long time.

  With the weight on my back, and the bundled jacket at my side, I was forced to keep my movements slow and ordered, watching every step, treading carefully for fear of the cans clanking and bringing the dead. Every time I heard them adjust in the pack, I would stop and check my surroundings, waiting for the dead to appear. It took me twice as long to get back to Mary as it had to find the market, and by the time I finally arrived, I was exhausted.

  The music was still playing and Mary was waiting at the door for me when I made it back. She let a simple smile grace her face. She unlatched the locks and I slid in, scraping the pack on the doorframe.

  “You did it,” she said in a relieved sigh.

  “Of course I did.” I smiled and hefted the pack off my shoulders.

  I followed her up the stairs and waited for her to enter first. I dropped the bag to the couch and watched her face brighten when I opened it, revealing what I had found.

  “The whole store was packed,” I said. “I was worried, I thought maybe those neighbors of yours had got to it first.”

  “I don’t think they need to,” she replied. “There are a lot of food distribution centers over that way. They’re probably living off that.”

  “So what’s the deal with them, anyway?”

  “I don’t know much about them,” she said. “All I can tell you is that they came and killed and took people against their will. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

  “Surely you’ve seen something.”

  “They don’t come around this way. Every once in a while, I see smoke from the roof and that’s it. They go out as much as I do.”

  “Never?” I asked with a grin.

  She nodded her head and returned my smile. She turned her attention back to the bag. “So what are we having tonight?”

  I focused on the cans and replied, “Anything you want.”

  She smiled again and picked through the bag, shuffling cans to the side, and pulled out a bag of pasta and a can of sauce. “Do you suppose it’s still good?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  I opened a can of Sterno and placed it on the stove and sat a few of the gas burner grates on top to give the flame room to burn. I filled a pan with some of the bottled water and brought it to a boil before adding the pasta.

  “Have you ever heard the song Canned Heat Blues?” I asked, waiting for the pasta to cook.

  “No, I don’t think I have.”

  “I don’t suppose you would have,” I said. “It was recorded in 1928. It was about hobos drinking the alcohol they strained from cans of Sterno,” I said.

  She tightened up her face. “Really?” she asked. “They would go through all of that for a buzz?” She laughed.

  “During the Depression, people did whatever they could to get by, to make life easier.”

  “I suppose they had to,” she said, watching the water bubble up in the pan.

  “It’s a lot like it is now.”

  “What have you done to get by?” she asked.

  “Things that I would rather not remember,” I replied, shaking my head.

  Once the pasta was cooked, I strained what was left of the water into a cup and returned the spaghetti to the pan, pouring the sauce over with a sizzle. I added some of the water to thin it out and placed the pasta in some bowls that Mary had wiped clean.

  I don’t remember anything ever tasting so good. There’s nothing in the world like a plate of hot food.

  “What did you do when you found the building, that supply store you were talking about?” she asked, wiping sauce from the side of her mouth.

  As I looked back through my memories, a bitter taste came up in my mouth. The story just came out and I did little to hold it back.

  Chapter 8

  Hand over hand I climbed a series of water pipes to a fire escape on the side of the building. I couldn’t feel my fingers by the time I made it to the landing. Calluses ripped open on my palms and dotted my skin with blood. I rubbed my hands together and balled them in
to fists to make the circulation return. As the numbness went away, so did the pain.

  I edged my fingers through a small gap at the bottom of the window and pulled it upward. Tight and swollen, the window opened a few inches with every tug. When it was halfway open, I knelt down for leverage and pushed it up the remainder of the way.

  The smell inside was stale and musty. I held back a sneeze as the dust drifted upward. My eyes watered as I placed my hand over my face and breathed slowly to make the urge subside.

  Once in, I found that I had come into an office. A half full cup of coffee sat on a desk positioned in the center of the room, mold floating on the top. A yellowed newspaper lay open next to the cup with the headline ‘Pandemic sweeps the West Coast’. I scanned the page for a moment before I realized that I was reading history. I smiled to myself and sighed as I went for the door.

  A long, dark hallway stretched out in both directions as I poked my head out from the doorframe. Pictures hung between each of the doors that lined both walls, depicting nature scenes and landscapes.

  Down a narrow flight of stairs I made it to the first floor. There was a door behind me with an exit sign above it and another door ahead, unmarked. I tried the knob of the unmarked door and found it was locked. I thought about shooting off the lock, but didn’t want to give myself away.

  I took to the stairs again and back into the office. I hadn’t noticed it on my way out, but the door was labeled with a placard that read ‘manager’s office’. I shuffled through the desk drawers and found a key ring.

  Back downstairs, I tried each key until I found one that unlocked the door. With a faint click, it opened and I was looking out into a showroom. Camping gear and sporting goods lined the shelves and hung along the walls. I stood there for quite a while, taking it all in. I was amazed at how much there was. But what really got me was that it hadn’t been looted. The building was far enough off the main drag to make it inconvenient for anyone who may have been involved with the initial riots and looting. It made me thankful for laziness.