Canister X – A.P. Fuchs: Zombie, Paranormal Romance and Superhero Novelist, Blogger, Artist, Publisher

Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.
34: On the Move Part Three

Telecom handheld transmission:

It was happening again, me caught in a world of death.
Selena shook and convulsed in my lap, a yellow milky foam dribbling out the corners of her lips.
The zombies banged on the door to the laundry room, the incessant thuds making it difficult to concentrate.
“Selena, please, you have to stop,” I said, but why I said it I didn’t know. Probably just voicing my thoughts.
She kept shaking, her body bouncing up and down in rollercoaster-like waves.
Heart racing, I asked her if there was anything I could do. She didn’t reply, and her eyes were rolled back in their sockets. For a brief moment I thought she was trying to look up at me, but I had lost her beautiful brown-eyed gaze as the whites of her eyes became all I saw.
The undead beyond the door continued drumming against it.
Selena stopped shaking. Her body kicked out a few more jolts then lay still.
Tears in my eyes, I gently brushed her hair off her face and leaned in, listening for breath. There was none. I put her head on the ground, got beside her and started CPR. Each press of my palms against her chest grew more and more intense; each time it seemed her nonresponsiveness intensified even though I know now it had only been my imagination.
Why was this happening? How many times could I lose her?
I didn’t know what was worse right then: losing Selena from my life, but knowing she was alive somewhere, possibly happy, or losing her and watching her die. After all, they both ended with the same result: her absence from me.
Seems selfish, I know, but unless you’ve walked this road, you can’t say anything. More specifically, unless you’ve walked this road several times like I have, you have no right to say anything.
The zombies kept beating their decaying fists against the heavy door.

* * *

Around an hour later I was alone in that room. No longer able to look at Selena’s deceased form, I carefully laid her down in the janitor’s supply closet in the room and closed its door. It was cruel because she deserved a proper burial, but at the same time, I needed space and given all that I’ve been through, I decided to cut myself some slack.
The zombies had stopped their beating on the door, but they hadn’t left. Their hollow moans still filled the hallway beyond, their deathly groans coming in through the gap between the door and floor.
I lay in a foetal position on the ground, balling my eyes out over my loss.
Over my life.
Over myself.
Yeah, it was a real pity party, but you’d have one too if you were in my shoes.
I don’t how much time passed, but a dull thump came from the janitor closet. Immediately, I leapt to my feet and cautiously approached it.
Another thump came from behind the door.
No, it couldn’t be. Not like this. She was dead. She was–
Not Selena. Please, God, don’t let her become one of them.
The thumping grew consistent, and I could imagine her behind the door, stepping up to it, bumping into it, stepping back, then coming at it again. Over and over.
My baby. Not you, too.
If I opened the door, I could be dead really soon. If I didn’t, then there was a good chance the bumping into the door would grow more aggressive and alert the others in the hallway outside the laundry room that there was still something for them to get at.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please be okay.”
I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. I took a large step back as I let the door swing all the way open.
Out of the shadows, Selena emerged, her head cocked slightly to one side. Her mouth hung slack; her eyes remained rolled back in their sockets. She stumbled toward me.
“Selena?” I said.
She stopped, turned her head more in my direction, then adjusted her footing, this time coming more directly at me. A few seconds later, she raised her left hand. I touched her fingers. They were ice cold. Her hand gripped mine and she started to pull herself closer. I yanked my hand away and darted for the far side of the room, and scanned it up and down for something to defend myself with. Nothing. Nothing lethal, anyway.
Selena slowly walked toward me.
I stepped to the side. When my foot came down, it landed on the ground harder than I wanted. Her head immediately craned in the direction of the sound and then she started heading that way.
My girl was gone.
It was a feeling, it was a thought. Its reality sunk in quicker than I expected and immediately I knew I had to get rid of her otherwise I’d be her lunch soon enough.
I let her get close to me before carefully moving out of her way in a semicircle. My goal was to get to the closet she had just come out of. There had to be something in there I could use to defend myself with.
Keeping one eye on her, the other on the closet, I inched my way there, each footstep I took as light as I could possibly make it.
Once at the closet, I peered in and scanned the shelves. Nothing but a bunch of cleaning supplies, a mope and bucket, a broom, some boxes and–the broom.
I pulled it out. It wasn’t too thick, but thick enough I couldn’t break it over my knee.
Slowly, I kept my circular pattern and went to the far corner of the room while Selena was at the other, her head weaving side-to-side as she tried to find me.
I had only one chance at this, and I had to make it quick. I held the broom handle with one hand, leaned it on an angle and put my foot down on its head. Quickly, and as hard as I could, I stomped down halfway between the top of the handle and the broom’s head. Crack! The wood splintered, but didn’t break.
Selena turned around and faced me. She raised her arms, her fingers rigid like claws.
I stomped down on the broom again. It snapped this time, but not cleanly. I had to–
She was real close, like six feet away.
I flipped the broom over and came at it from the other side. The wood broke. I let the straw end fall to the floor, and I got the handle end ready.
“Please, Selena,” I said. “If you can hear me, you need to stop. I don’t want to–”
But there was no response in that dead face. No sign she recognized my voice. Not the slightest hint of contemplation.
So be it, I said, and came at her with the broom handle.
The sharp end plunged directly in her middle. I kicked out against her chest and pulled on the handle at the same time. The handle came out, bringing with it blood and stringy flesh. I brought it across her face like a baseball bat. The force of the blow was enough to knock her off balance, and with another kick I sent her on her back to the ground.
“Forgive me,” I said, and plunged the sharp end of the stick into her eye. Her body twitched a couple time then lay still.
I stumbled back a few steps and couldn’t believe how fast I had taken her down. For some strange reason, my heartache was gone. So was the confusion. Instead, I felt . . . nothing.
Just . . . nothing.
Who was I? What had I become?
I had to get out of there.

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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.
22: Just Keep Moving

Selena and I dropped behind a counter loaded with scattered spoons and pots. Both of us breathed quick and short, our breaths echoing the fast beat of our hearts. We looked at each other with wide eyes, knowing the slightest sound would alert the dead to our location. Selena’s lower lip began to tremble. I don’t know why it happened then, of all times, but tears dripped from the corners of my eyes–not because of fear, but of seeing her so scared. I wished so badly I could just wrap my arms around her and shelter her from the undead lumbering into the kitchen, their groans echoing off the walls.
But I couldn’t.
To sit there, eyes closed, pretending we were somewhere else would only ensure our deaths.
So we sat there, as still as statues, hoping the undead wouldn’t shamble around the whole kitchen. If only they’d just leave. The moments ticked by, time seeming to be caught in a slow drip of molasses.
Selena squeezed her eyes shut when a zombie let out a raspy howl. She broke down, sobbing. She did her best to stifle each choking gasp, but the best she could do was make it sound like some kind of inverted sneeze.
The zombies’ footsteps drew closer.
“We’re going to have to run,” I whispered.
She opened her eyes and nodded, her expression clearly displaying she knew it was her fault the undead heard us, her gaze asking me for forgiveness. Even if we were going to die, of course I’d forgive her.
The dead drew nearer and I guessed they were right up against the other side of the counter. How many were there, I didn’t know.
“Arms up and plow through,” I told her. “Let me go first.”
I duck-walked past her then drew my arms up so my forearms were held in front of me like a couple battering rams, my bat held vertical like some kind of flag of land and country. Selena held her cleaver aloft.
“Now,” I said, and stood quickly. Ignoring the head rush, I rounded the counter and propelled myself forward through a pack of zombies about four bodies thick.
“Run!” Selena screamed from behind.
We headed for the kitchen door, leaving the shamblers behind us. We emerged back into the dining room proper, which was now swarming with the undead. Bat in hand, I went to work bringing its razor-covered end into every rotting head I saw. Blood and skin tore from decaying skulls, sailing through the air like a black, red, and gray mist. Selena grunted behind me as she took the cleaver to anything that came near her. Bodies dropped, and I learned a secret to fighting the undead at The Wok: keep moving. You cannot let yourself become stationary when under attack. Just move, move, move and cut your way through like a madman.
My bat sliced open the chest of a woman, the interior of her breasts sliding out like moldy chicken from a couple wet paper bags. I brought the bat up into the stomach of an dead old man, removing his guts, making them drop out to the floor.
“Get to the door!” I said.
“Should have seen if there was a back one,” Selena replied as she drove the cleaver home into a dead teenager’s skull.
“Didn’t see one running off the kitchen.” I took a deep breath, brought my bat against the head of another zombie, then called to her, “We get outside, go right. I think there was an opening there.”
“Opening?”
“Not as many zombies.”
“Okay.”
With a shriek, I ran for the doors, swinging my bat side to side, its bladed end tearing into some of the undead, other times serving more as a battering ram, helping to clear the way. Selena was right behind me. The blade of her cleaver nicked the back of my arm. I barely felt it; just a mild sting. I don’t think she realized it because she didn’t say anything.
We emerged through the broken front doors of The Wok, the zombies out front ambling about in different directions, the majority, however, stumbling toward the restaurant.
“Move!” I shouted.
We headed to the right as planned, taking out as many of the undead as we could. We only fought those who were too close for comfort. When fighting zombies, you see, you don’t make active work of it. The goal is to get away and do what needs doing in that regard. Try to take them on like some kind of He-Man and you’re dead meat.
Half-eaten bodies lined the streets; all missing their heads. Whether that was from other folks killing the undead or from the undead themselves going after the brains, I’m not sure. Some of the bodies were missing arms and legs. Some just a hand or foot. Guts and blood coated the pavement as if a truck filled with paint cans had crashed and spilled black and red and brown and gray everywhere.
The stench of rot was so thick I think I heard Selena throw up while running behind me. I was about to ask her if she was okay when an dead Asian dude stepped in front of me, hands outstretched. I brought the bat down on his arms, tearing through the rotting skin. The bones within broke and what was left of his arms just dangled there at the elbows. I took the bat to his face and dropped him. Selena and I jumped over the body and kept going.
Finally we were able to turn a corner into an alley. Fortunately, it was open-ended so if worse came to worse, we wouldn’t be trapped.
We stopped and put our hands on our knees.
Selena did have a bit of throw up on her mouth. She must have saw me wince because she quickly brought a hand to her face and wiped it away.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay. Are you all right?”
“No.”
“You hurt?”
“No. Just . . . shaky, grossed out. Sick.”
“I know the feeling.”
We kept an eye on the mouth of the alley as we caught our breaths.
“So thirsty,” I said. “Feels like I’m swallowing a washcloth.”
She nodded. “Yup.”
A shudder ran through me; my legs were weak. I didn’t want to admit it in case Selena was more or less sturdy now. Didn’t want to be the weaker one. Not right here.
“Come on,” I said, and slowly began backing out of the alley the opposite way we came.
“We’re going home, right?” she asked.
Never thought I’d hear her refer to my place as home. “I don’t know. We still need food. I’d rather just get it all in one go instead of coming out later.”
She didn’t reply, and I didn’t want to press the issue in case we’d fight or something.
At the mouth of the alley, opening up onto a new street, I stopped, turned around and surveyed the area to get a handle on things.
I didn’t like what I saw.

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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.
21: A Trek for Food

It’s been two days since I last posted. To be honest, I forgot about you. See, there’s something about Selena that you need to understand: Time dissolves when she’s around. The passing of moments are barely acknowledged and if they are kept track of, it’s done on a subconscious level and never on purpose. You know when to eat, to sleep and all the rest, but I don’t recall looking at my watch until just this morning, the digital date informing me how long it’s been since I told you about Selena’s dream. Some reading this might say two days isn’t a long time. You don’t understand. In the world I live in, one filled to the brim with the undead, two days is a very long time. Add being reunited with the love of your life after you thought you killed her and Time has no meaning.
Hold on a second . . .
. . .
. . .
Selena asked what I was doing. I thought it might be best to keep this blog a secret. For now. See, girls are finicky like that: they want a guy who needs them, but not one who really needs them. The sad part is, it’s hard for us guys to find that balance.
Anyway, I just said I was writing down some thoughts about the zombies and coming up with a game plan to keep us safe. In a way, it was partially true, but it’s killing me to keep this blog from her. But this thing needs to be written in case something happens to me. There needs to be a record of trying to live on this zombie-infested planet. And if I’m going to be the one to write it, I’m going to do it my way and include the girl of my dreams.
Back to the task at hand: Selena. I know some of you are sick of hearing about her, but it’s important I share everything with you. You’ll understand in the end—if I live long enough to get to the end or even if there is an end.
Food is scarce. We’re not starving, but it’s becoming a challenge to find what we need as either what is found is already rotten, or I end up being the one to clean out an abandoned pantry or kitchen cupboard and there’s not much there to begin with.
Selena and I went on a food hunt yesterday. She insisted on coming, though I pleaded with her to stay at the apartment for her own safety.
“I’d feel safer if I was with someone,” she said. “Besides, I can hold my own, if we need to.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said, though I didn’t really think so. She never struck me as the warrior type. Further–and, yeah, think of me as a politically-incorrect/insensitive/ignorant fool—but, despite the whole “all for equality” mantra that was so prevalent in society, the reality is the children were the first to be eaten, then the women, then the men. Girls are just not as strong as guys. Save for a few exceptions, we dominate. Hunters and gatherers and all that jazz. As for Selena, she’s the kind of girl who, when you hug her, you can feel her frailness. Not that she’s weak, but her frame is small and I’ve never seen her lift anything heavy. Even when she used to give me a good squeeze, there wasn’t a moment where I went, “Okay, that’s enough.”
Digression over.
Selena and I hit the streets. I was armed with my razor-covered baseball bat. She had a cleaver from the kitchen. Unless we had to weave around fallen vehicles or rubble, I made sure she was beside me the whole time.
It took an hour, but we made a direct line from my apartment north to Chinatown. Back in the day, it was one of the most colourful areas in Comptropolis. The curved and rounded roofs with their swooping eaves stood high and proud over elegant shops, some made of solid glass except for their structural supports. Neon signs hung in windows; others naming the restaurant or store in big, bold oriental-styled letters. A tourist attraction, sure, but there was more to it than that. There was a sense of history and cultural pride, something that was lost in most other parts of the city when Comtropolis made its mad dash for modernism.
The downside of searching Chinatown for food was the Chinese used a lot of fresh ingredients in their cuisine. By now, all of it would be rotted. However, the Chinese were also wizards at drying foods and I hoped we could round up a bag or two of rice, noodles, powdered soups and dehydrated vegetables.
At the edge of Chinatown, Selena and I stood side by side.
It had been a quiet walk over. Any undead we saw were quickly avoided by us ducking in behind zipcars or under benches or in bus stops. But here in Chinatown, we had a big problem: the undead roamed the streets, many of them gathered in packs. I counted at least thirty zombies from where I stood.
“Think they see us?” Selena asked. Her voice wavered and I guessed she was still upset over her dream and what she saw before her was too much for her. But to be honest, it is too much. For anybody.
“Not yet, but they will. All it takes is one. After that, they all see you, like their brains are connected somehow.”
“What do we do?”
“Sneak around. I want to hit The Wok over there.” I nodded in the restaurant’s direction.
Selena peered down the street. It took her a moment, but it appeared she finally saw the burned-out sign reading THE WOK. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s the plan?”
It was then I really wished she wasn’t with me. If anything happened to her . . . (and yeah, I realize my feelings for her are messed up and I’ve done things too horrible to be forgiven for, but you trying living in a world filled with zombies and do better. No, really, go for it. I’ll be right here if you need me.)
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Stay close. They come near, first try to avoid them. If you can’t, lay into them with that knife of yours. Just be careful it doesn’t get stuck in them and you lose it. Cool?”
“Okay. You be careful.”
“I will.”
We started in, cautiously, nearly tiptoeing. Less than five feet from where we started, and an undead guy with mottled deep gray skin saw us. He changed direction and started toward us, feet dragging. He brushed past another zombie—a girl with no nose and blood running from her chin—his shoulder scraping strongly against hers enough to turn her so she faced us. On our right, another one saw us.
“Keep going straight,” I said. “Don’t go out of your way to get them.” I did want to take my bat across their undead skulls, but with Selena by my side, getting to The Wok in one piece was more important.
We went around another vehicle, eyes trained forward on the restaurant. More undead saw us. More drew closer.
The moment the dead guy with deep gray skin brushed his fingers against my shoulder, I swung the bat into his head. The razors caught on his skin and peeled his nose and cheek from his face. I raised the bat high then brought it down on his head. The bone cracked and the creature fell to its knees. Selena yelped. I took the bat across the zombie’s head again. It’s neck broke and its head snapped to the side; the razors on my bat took more flesh and bone with it. The zombie fell over.
Selena screamed and an undead dude who was too overweight for even a zombie had his hand on her shoulder. Shrieking, she tried to pull away. The zombie gripped her right shoulder and jerked her toward her. About to come in with the bat, I was stopped when another zombie stepped in front of me. I jabbed the bat into its chest, then brought it around so I clocked it in the back of the head.
Selena turned on her heels, raised the cleaver, and brought it down on the zombie’s wrist. She wasn’t strong enough to have brought the cleaver clean through, but the force was enough to give the undead man pause and look at his hand. That was enough time for me to make two giant strides over to it and bring the bat across its skull. The creature fell to the ground. I went over to its arm, put my foot down on it, then ripped the cleaver from its wrist and handed it to Selena.
“Here,” I said.
She took it.
“Hold it harder. Try chopping instead of just slamming it into something.”
She nodded.
More zombies closed in.
“Watch out,” I said, referring to myself, not them.
I lunged forward, bringing my bat down into every undead head that filled my vision. Men, women, even children received a blow to the head. Some stayed down, others didn’t. Those that stumbled to the side or fell but got back up received another swing. One guy’s head burst on impact. I don’t know what that was about. It was almost like hitting a watermelon. Over-decayed, maybe, though his skin wasn’t in too bad of shape.
A little girl with no lips grabbed hold of my leg and tried to bite my thigh. I brought the base of the bat in between her face and my leg, then pried it back over my leg like a crowbar, loosening her hold on me. Taking a step away, I wound up and brought the bat into her face in a golf swing. The force was enough to lift her off her feet and go flying, a spray of blood hitting the air with her.
To my right, Selena hacked into an old man with no shirt. She ripped the cleaver from the side of his neck. Blood spurted out in an arc. She brought the knife in on the other side.
“I got it,” I said, moving in. She removed the blade and I took the bat across the old guy’s head. The flesh and bones of his neck gave way and his head went flying off his shoulders.
Taking Selena by the hand, I brought her close then ran with her past a couple zombies and in between two more. We were almost at the restaurant.
“Get behind me,” I said and began swinging the bat side-to-side. Every zombie that got close got struck. On one of them, my bat got stuck in between its neck and shoulder and I had to pry it loose while waving off the undead man’s hands as he tried to grab me.
With a shriek, Selena brought the cleaver down and into the man’s forehead.
“Nice,” I said.
“Thanks.” She grinned. It was the first time I saw her smile all day.
Forcing myself to remain focused, I took out another zombie and Selena and I made it to The Wok’s front doors. They were glass and the glass was smashed. Others had been here first.
We ran inside and was immediately greeted by a mound of bodies, mostly piles of bones and gobs of dry and wet flesh. Anything obviously humanoid was lost in the grue.
“Disgusting,” Selena said. “Stinks.”
“Awful, I know. Let’s go.”
The groans of the dead filled the air behind us, as did their banging and clamouring as they made their way into the building.
“We don’t have much time,” I said.
We ran through the dining room, past turned over tables and strewn-about white tablecloths smeared with blood. I accidentally kicked a severed arm when I ran by it.
We burst through the kitchen doors. Silver pots and pans lay everywhere. Metallic cupboard doors hung open and bare. The deep freeze door at the back of the room was also open.
“Pantry. Pantry. Pantry,” I said.
Selena stayed close to me as I walked around and scanned the room.
“Sure this place has food?” she asked.
“I didn’t say I was sure. Just never been here. Most everything between my place and Chinatown has been picked clean. This area was the next stop on my list.”
Footfalls thumped against the ground in the other room.
“Hurry, Marty. Hurry,” she said.
“I know.”
But I couldn’t see the pantry.
The kitchen door swung open.
The dead shambled in.
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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.

17: Watersheds (redo)

Like I said, my life changed because of one girl. Now, it seems, it’s changing again thanks to the world’s decent into chaos and the living dead.
In that bedroom, sitting next to her body, covered in blood, I didn’t cry. Most people would. Anyone who kills the one they love would bawl till their eyes bled. But I do remember the buzzing inside my head, my brain feel soaked with alcohol and the lightheadedness that goes with being stoned.
I sat there, her head in my lap, my hands stroking her hair over what was left of her skull after I had dismantled it with the Louisville. Glancing around her room, I remembered that particular time I hinted at earlier.
It was the time she and I had first made love.
Both of us had been raised proper, the idea being not to have sex before marriage. Believe me, many nights after long make out sessions we fought with everything we had to not give in and go one or ten steps further. In hindsight—and perhaps this is only the part of me my parents raised talking—I’m glad we abstained as long as we did because the night we did first get glimpse into each other worlds was so powerful that I’m sure our abstinence played a huge part in it.
That hallway, the two of us, walking down it hand-in-hand, each breathing choppy due to racing and apprehensive hearts, was like a tunnel to a new world where discovery awaited and rebirth was just around the corner.
We went into the bathroom first, Selena turning on the shower, the room suddenly filling with the moist warmth of steam and the security that goes with it.
I was in a regular T-shirt and jeans that night. She wore jeans, too, and an oversized white sweatshirt from the high school she went to.
When she turned toward me after testing the water, she smiled, brown eyes glowing, both of us scared and excited.
We didn’t really plan this per se, but more so came up with the idea while watching television in her living room, ignoring what was on and instead focusing on each other. One didn’t even have to tell the other that we were going to take the next step. We both just kind of knew. I looked her, she looked at me, and we both nodded at the same time.
The shower part was her idea. Thought it might smooth any awkwardness that might come later.
She was right because as we slowly undressed and stole glances at the other as each piece of clothing was taken away, it felt almost natural, as if her and I had done this a hundred times before.
Once we were naked, we immediately held each other as if an indirect effort to conceal ourselves from the others’ eyes.
We went into the shower, kissing most of the time, talking at others, then went to her bedroom, each wrapped in a towel. When we got to her bed, we pulled the covers back together then, as a game, counted to three and ripped our towels away.
All that followed changed our relationship.
Changed my life.
Changed hers.
Changed everything.

* * *

I need to stop. I know you might be disappointed that I didn’t get into detail about what happened in the bedroom or anything that happened many times after that, but to be honest, all physical pleasure aside, sex wasn’t about the pleasure for us anyway. Yes, it was there, but the connecting, the falling deep into someone else, the revelation of that private side of them that was only reserved for one other was the cornerstone of our physical relationship.
It was about love.
Making love.
Making it real.
Making it last.
And it did last.
Sure, things ended badly, but the love part never did. At least on my end. That’s why I can’t begin to describe to you what it was like killing Selena because, I think, by having done that, I killed myself, too, the part that understood what it was doing despite the desperate survival instinct that took over, despite the rage and need for revenge for her ripping my heart out and ruining my life.
It was that love that was my watershed.
It was her death that was my watershed, too.
It was—
Um…okay. There’s a knock at my door or at least what sounded like one.
Hang on.

…
…
I dropped my bat on my foot.
I’m telling you now in case something happens.
I looked through the peephole.
It was Selena.

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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.
16: Watersheds

What’s sick about all this is that my whole life boils down to Selena. There’s my life before her and my life after. No in between or some kind of transition period or years of maturing or anything that goes with growing up. I suppose every life, in the end, has some kind of watershed. Selena was mine. Just wish it wasn’t so painful.
I’m home now, writing this (obviously), thinking that perhaps a new watershed has presented itself.
Madness.
My new turning point.
I had beat whatever was left of life out of Selena.
Scratch that.
I had beat whatever was left of death out of Selena and…and killed her.
I…killed her.
Can’t finish this now.
Later.
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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.
14: Before

I couldn’t take it anymore, the wondering.
I had to know if Selena was alive.
Though the world got screwed up a long time before, not knowing was killing me.
I did the math: everyone dead equaled she was dead, too.
Still didn’t compute. That’s the funny thing about hope. No matter how bleak the circumstances, no matter how unlikely things would work out, it still nagged at you, telling you that somehow, some way, some when everything would be all right.
I go on-line, did some searches, feeling something like a super spy able to discover whatever I wanted at the touch of a button.
See, nowadays everybody’s plugged into the Net. Most people are users; the only ones who aren’t are those who live on the streets. Communication was everything before the dead rose. Still is now—if you could find somebody to talk to. Have a job? There’s a trail somewhere in Cyberspace. Have money? Your transactions are wired into the Net, too. Like movies? Same deal. All rentals are done on-line. No more going to the video store, but even if you do shop at the few left, those rentals are still tracked via the store’s Web site.
I digress.
Finding Selena’s address didn’t take long. Got her phone number off a video receipt of Rents-‘R’-Us. Stuck her phone number into 411 and, wholla, there she was.
Address committed to memory, I grabbed my Louisville and stood by my door. Was I really going to do this? Go out there, try and evade the dead and see if she was home? I must have stood there for a half hour just thinking about what I was going to do. See, Selena didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Long story there, but let’s just say I didn’t handle the break up very well. Had a thing for trying to contact her after the fact even after being repeatedly told the show was over.
But this was different. It wasn’t every day the world ended. I figured she’d cut me some grace and let the past be the past.
If I found her, that was.
When I finally went outside, it was evening, the cool air just setting in, the silence of a dead city almost soothing to the nerves (if I made an effort to not think about what was out there).
I began walking. For every zombie I saw, I made sure I had ample time to either hide or take a different route. It caused the walk to Selena’s to take forever. I got there, however, some two hours after I left (I think). She lived in a highrise called Sweet Iris, the building’s name making zero sense (as did a lot of the things named in Comptropolis). I didn’t know how long she had lived there for since we last spoke. It didn’t matter.
Sweet Iris looked to be about fifty stories tall. Her suite number was 4912, so I assumed that meant the forty-ninth floor.
The front door, all glass, had been smashed a long time ago. I went in, the stench of rotting flesh thick on the air. I stepped back outside and breathed in deep and readied myself to get back in there and “take it like a man.”
Once back inside, I kept taking big gulps of air, holding it, as I went further in, thinking the less I breathed the better off I would be. Then I realized that by holding the air in, I was allowing my lungs ample time to fully absorb whatever microscopic organisms were in the air. Even diseased.
Breathing normal, I finished crossing the expansive lobby, one lined with wilting trees and a no-longer-running stream with gold fish floating belly-up on its surface. Must have been nice back in its heyday.
The elevators were dead and the thought of climbing forty-nine floors made my stomach do a flip.
Then I remembered it was for Selena.
It was always about Selena.

* * *

I nearly died by the time I finally reached her door. Panting, heart rapping inside my chest, I had to put a hand against the doorframe to deal with my dizzy head and the stitch in my side.
Selena’s door.
I’ve been here a million times before, both when I was with her and in my mind ever since. This door was a gateway to a world of love, pleasure and the infilling of something that only happens when you meet the one person you’re sure you’re destined to be with forever.
The feeling of her safety was there, overwhelming me, and for a moment I forgot about the creatures lurking outside and how the rest of the world was dead.
Then reality came back and there I was, ready to find my girl.
I kicked down the door.
Selena’s apartment was rank, the funk of death immediately bringing bile up to the back of my throat.
The white walls and ivory-colored doors that lined the foyer still looked like they had the last time I was here.
I closed the door behind me and checked the light switch, just in case. No power. I inadvertently glanced back at the door and felt tears well up in my eyes at what I saw: blood, dark smears of the stuff all up and down it as if Selena had tried to beat down the door and busted her hands open in the process. Why she hadn’t used the handle, I didn’t know, unless—
Then it hit me.
She couldn’t escape. Something or someone stopped her.
Movement behind me.
I spun around, Louisville ready, just itching it plow it into the skull of the monster that took my sweet girl.
The floor was coated in blood, black and dried.
Slowly, I stepped forward, gently placing one foot in front of the other as lightly as I could so as not to make a sound. Too late. The dried blood on the wooden floor cracked as I walked on it.
I passed the kitchen on the right, the one where we cooked our first-anniversary meal together. Heart aching and throat dry, I pressed on. The living room was next and it was just in behind the ornate swinging door in front of me.
I thought about getting out of there, about running for safety.
But I had to know.
I gently pushed open the door.
That’s when she charged me.
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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.

11: The City

The city was called Comptropolis, the idea behind it being endless streets and towering buildings, a complex of wealth, opportunity and freedom. The poor shmoes who designed this marvel of architecture had no idea what was coming. No one dead. Now we got zombies, just like every other city in the world.

I’ve taken to calling this place “Zomtropolis,” instead. Fitting, I think.

As I weaved my way down the motorwalks, dodging crashed hover-cars, airbuses wrapped around traffic poles and emergency vehicles scattered everywhere like a spilled bucket of Micromachines, I couldn’t help but think back to how the city used to be before all this mess started.

There’s not a single building in the city that’s less than forty stories high. I remember aerial views on the weather network and how, from that high up, Comptropolis used to almost look like a computer’s motherboard, all blocks and spires and shiny metal things. Hover-cars used to fly up and down the streets some ten feet from the ground, something vehicles had been doing for the past ten years or so. And though those were cool, it was the airbuses that people loved because airbuses actually flew-flew and the airspace above the city was theirs. Brilliant inventions, I think, and it cut the commute to work down to less than half.

At night, everything was Vegas, all lights, sounds, the laughter of people riding the motorwalks up and down the city streets, the honking of horns, go, go, go. After the dawn of the Internet era, companies and investors had looked to new avenues of advertising once the Web got overcrowded with ads for nearly every webpage out there. So, taking an old idea, they billboarded everything—lampposts, traffic lights, hover-cars, airbuses, the overhead train, the sides of buildings. Two-way mirrors took on a whole new meaning as buildings were constructed with two-way windows, the interior side for looking out, the exterior for video and audio ads for whatever product was being pushed. I sometimes wondered where they got the money for this stuff. Billions were spent—and not just here, everywhere—and my only conclusion was that through some miracle those in charge just wanted to update and upgrade the globe.

So much for good ideas because now the buildings were dark, the two-way windows dead and without power, smashed and useless.

There was no one to buy anything any more. (I, for one, am grateful money is a thing of the past; never was rich to begin with.)

The baseball bat suddenly weighed a ton and, unintentionally, I allowed its end to hit the ground. The jagged blades covering its end caught on the motorwalk and the bat jammed into the ground, its butt-end slamming into my stomach, sending me head over heels to the ground. Panting and lying on my back, dizziness sweeping my skull, the endless blue and white of the sky seeming something like a dream, I considered staying there and resting up before moving on.

But the groans that began to materialize on the air told me I’d better not.

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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.

8: Hiatus

You know what? Forget it. I was gonna do this big lead-in to what happened that day, get all dramatic, get your blood pumping and all the rest, but not anymore. That’s the problem with the world I live in: try and do something good and proper and instead you get blindsided with some stupid, unexpected situation and BLAM! Totally screwed up.

Okay. I exaggerated on the “unexpected” part. Where I live, these days things are very expected.

There’s a good reason why I haven’t written in awhile. I wanted to. Really wanted to.

Anyway…

Enough screwing around. Here’s the deal:

I logged onto my computer the day after I wrote you last and was about to type my first sentence when this stupid banging on glass jolts me from my thoughts. I live two floors above street level so I wasn’t surprised when the windows to my apartment were free of anything that might be causing the disturbance. That means whatever it was was coming from downstairs. I didn’t even have to leave my apartment to know what was going on.

I opened the window, peered down and, yup, sure enough, there they are.

Zombies.

A whole platoon of them.

Yes, they’re real. I’m not joking. I may be a lot of things but there’s no way I’d try and slip you a fast one by stating the dead are walking when in reality they’re not. That’s not something you joke about. Ever.

The whole crew of them, with rotting faces, hands—even their clothes—are standing around the front of my building, banging against the glass as if they thought they could get in. They’re not smart. They’re not strong. They’re stupid and slow. The only thing that makes them dangerous are: a) when there’s a whole bunch of them; and, b) when they’re hungry.

The stories are true. The myth is real.

Zombies eat people.

So what did I do? I used to just get in my closet, shut the door and wait it out, fearing for my life. Nowadays, I’m more proactive. I can’t stand the noise. That was one thing I hated about the “world of the living,” by the way: the noise. The constant bickering of people, the racket of early-morning rush hour, the incessant blaring of tele-ads on those massive screens that are on nearly every street corner.
Ridiculous.

Anyway, there was no way I was going to let those dead guys down there ruin my peace and quiet, so I went to my utility closet and pulled out my secret weapon: an old Louisville Slugger coated in razor blades. It was easy to make. Just dunk the bat in a bathtub filled with glue then roll it in razors like one rolls cookie dough in Smarties. The thing’s lethal.

It was just what I needed.

I threw on my boots, not paying any mind to the fact I was still in my boxers and white tank top, and stormed downstairs to face them head on.

At the bottom of the stairs, they stood on the other side of the locked dual-paned door, looking at me. One fat slab of a dead guy lunged forward, bounced off the glass, shook his head, then tried again. After bouncing off the second time, he seemed to get the idea, so just stood there as if waiting for me to open the door.

That’s exactly what I did.

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Copyright 2010 by A.P. Fuchs. All rights reserved.

7: How it Started Again

Figures. Had something important to say and something went wrong.

Was about to tell you about what went down that day when all of the sudden my screen went black and the computer shut off. Tried turning it back on again. Wouldn’t work. Wasn’t till later—now—that I realized the battery came slightly loose and I lost power. Probably from the way I was holding it, balancing it on my lap.

Anyway, yeah, that day.

It was a day I’ll never forget.

It started off like any other. Well, mostly. I rolled out of bed around 10 (had a day off; used to be a donut delivery driver before things went to hell), hit the can then poured a bowl of Sugar Sharks Flakes and sat in front of the boob tube till I was done. I hate mid-morning programming. Nothing on but bad game shows and soaps. “Stories,” as some call them. Yech.

When I was done my cereal, I dumped the bowl in the sink, went to the bedroom, got changed—white T-shirt and jeans—and for some reason wanted to double check my choice of attire so went to the window to see if the sun was shining. I hate light. Nowadays I wish I had more of it, but back then too much light always caused me headaches so I kept my blinds shut most of the time. I opened them, looked outside and was pleased to see a T-shirt and jeans was a good choice. The sky was clear. The sun was shining. A perfect day, something I needed because I was still hung up on Selena and, from what I heard, sunshine is good for your mood. You’re supposed to get a half hour or so of it on your skin per day. Something about Vitamin D being a mood-lifter.

Anyway, I stared out my window, glancing down to the walkway leading up to my front door (I’m on the third floor). Phantoms of Selena and I taking our time walking toward the building filled the sidewalk, and if I let myself, I was able to lose myself so entirely in the moment that it was like being there all over again. Her hand in mine, her head leaning on my shoulder, the sweet scent of her strawberry perfume filling me and making my head spin.

That’s when things started to go dark. Just past the rooftops of the houses across the street, shadows rose on the horizon. At first I thought a simple spring rain was headed our way and figured I had maybe an hour or so before the rain would hit my area. But there were no clouds. Just shadow. Couldn’t see what was causing it.

Then just as suddenly, the shadow was gone and it was bright out again.

The thundering echo of two zipcars slamming into each other a skywalk-length from my place made me jump away from the glass. I peered out, pressing my face against the glass, and caught a glimpse of the drivers hopping out of their vehicles in a mad panic–at first, seeming to check if the other was okay–then each quickly, still buzzing in the air via their anti-grav boots, holding out their hands palms up as if holding invisible barbells.

Another accident, this time an airbus speeding from the sky and slamming into a white Honda hovering above a curb. The airbus’s passengers all ran out a minute later.

Then everything changed.

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