“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!”
That's the sound of your breath when you're running from them. Each exhale is a profane prayer. It means, most likely, you did something stupid. In hindsight, it's usually something incredibly stupid.
The runners will think that later, if they're still alive. Now they have no choice but to run if they want to keep it that way.
There are four of them, and one is responsible for their current predicament. The other three know it and hold the grudge like a baton, passing it back and forth, careful not to drop and leave it behind in the dust.
“You idiot!” pants Number One.
“Hell yeah! What were you thinking?” adds Number Two.
Number Four stays quiet, waiting for Number Three to answer for their actions. They don't have one, only heavy breathing. They've never run this far in their whole life. Every muscle hurts, and their lungs burn like they inhaled a bucket of hot ashes.
There were working cars before. Why would anyone run anywhere? Now the shells sit on the sides of the roads like the useless heaps of metal they are. Number Three's calves threaten to seize with cramps, but an over-the-shoulder glance keeps their legs pumping.
The group falls into a steady pace. It's not a sprint, more of a quick jog. They sweat and wipe at their burning eyes. The sun slants at an especially blinding angle.
The herd pursuing the four isn't that fast, but there's a ton of them. They spill over each other and crowd in swirls, overtaking the full width of the street. The formation is packed with fresh ones from inside the store.
That's always the case, you know that, or at least you should by now. Always check inside before just barging in. You always goddamn check! They're out of the sun, they're not all dried up like a bunch of mummies. They move faster. They squish in their own juices. It's gross, the sound they make. It could make you sick if you weren't counting your lucky stars that that squish-squash-squish told your hide to get out of Dodge.
The other runners openly question how Number Three didn’t know this. How could they have survived for so long without following the basics? It's been an unforgiving learning curve. Fifty-fifty: learn or die. Most have died. Three goddamn weeks is all it took for the world to go to shit. If they're being honest, it really only took a few days, but they'd like to keep up a small prideful front even if it's only for themselves.
The end of the bridge is in sight and packed with more useless heaps. End to goddamned end. Blocked, like it does any good. It kept those idiots who built it in a confined space, is what it did, but now it causes the four runners to make nervous glances toward one another. Number Two hung a left like a blind bat. The rest followed, equally as blind, and they landed smack in the middle of an inclining on-ramp. The way behind floods, ebbing ever closer. The sound laps at their heels, licking at their shoes.
They hit the barricade, and suddenly age plays a role. Number One and Four vault to the top with little issue. They’re far younger than the other two. They could be gone. Every man, woman, and child for themselves. Darwinism at its finest. Sorry, Gramps, today is the day you’ve reached your limit.
“Please don't leave us!” cries Number Three, forgetting their original sin. Number Two grabs up like an infant with hurt hands to its parent, asking for a kiss to make it all go away.
One and Four give each other a look. In it is a question: Should I stay, or should I go now? There's no jangling guitars here, and the instant of hesitation answers. They stoop down and help the others up. The opposite end of the bridge fills and overflows. Bodies splash into the muddy water below on top of other muddy bodies. They squirm like swamp animals and blend into a singular brown mix.
The runners scramble down the other side of the blockage. They can't dilly-dally. The raised view showed what was waiting for them: husks of more cars and more people. Are they still people? Number Three is the only one who thinks so. But people or not, they’re dangerous. Even Three gets that point and picks up the pace to match the others.
Coming downtown was a terrible decision. One in a long chain of terrible decisions. Shit, goes their breath, smacking back and forth off dirty windows through the constructed canyon. It’s too loud. They are loud, even if they’re trying not to be.
From every narrow side street pour more of the aggressive bunches. Number One picks up the pace. Four matches it. Two and Three settle best they can with a growing gap.
“We need to get off these streets!” huffs Number Three.
Two agrees with a breathless, “That's the only good idea you've had, fatty. Jesus, I can't keep this up.”
Four speaks up for the first time, “Not yet... Follow me, I know where to go. My place is only two blocks away.”
Not another word is said, and the group follows Four out of the lack of any other bright ideas. The run commences. Corners are turned around reaching fingers, and behind them crescendos a building wave. Faces smack into the pavement as bodies get pulled underfoot. The onslaught is as relentless as the heat.
Number Three struggles, loses several paces, and nearly falls twice. Even Number Two shows no signs of hesitation in forward momentum.
Four reaches and jiggles around in their backpack. A keyring emerges and rattles the way to the right. Number Three is so grateful. This nightmare of inflamed muscle and tunneling vision is almost over. They have a safe haven, maybe. Three will take maybe. They’ll take anything.
Except stairs.
That's what's waiting for the group. Goddamned stairs. A metal skeleton of a fire escape claws to the backside of the building, skirting under the windows on each floor. Number Four and One are up the first retractable flight like greased lightning. Number Two staggers after, and Three hesitates, feeling a possible heart attack coming on.
“Hurry up!” one of them shouts.
The wave crashes at the end of the alley. The dead come knock, knock, knocking on your door. Number Three takes the stairs two at a time. Death would make the best personal trainer - scythe and cloak bent over a stationary bike, techno music pumping in the background, one of those hands-free microphones curled around the skull, “...and up! Six, seven, eight! Come on, now! Give me more! Nine, ten! Push it!”
The other runners attempt to pull the extendable portion up once Three hits the top, but it's too late. Hands and feet and bodies are already weighing down the first steps. The dead perusers are not great at navigating stairs, but they can make their way when motivated. The shouts did just that. You should know they follow sound. They might not see great, but they can hear just fine. Another one of the basics. All the runners are guilty here, but they blame slowpoke Number Three. Strike two.
More stairs. They need to go up three flights, says Four. If they beat the pack, the key will unlock the window. The apartment should be empty. They can block up the window. Stay in. Stay safe. Catch their breath. Make a new plan.
“Get fucked!” says Number One and takes off at speed. They don't stop until they clear the roof. They spring over the edge and disappear from view. The group is down to three. The youngest calculated the weight and cut the unneeded fat off with no further hesitation. Just like all of them, thinks Number Three. Selfish, shortsighted, wrong. The stairs seem to never end.
Number Four reaches the window first and moves to unlock the outer deadbolt, then jumps back. Faces and hands slam against the inner pane. They stain the glass into a holy mess. Two and Three catch up to Four, who sits in a shocked stupor, and they drag further up. The dead navigators mingle up the steps and steadily rise. Hallelujah!
The runners three reach the roof and follow Number One's path. They flop over onto the flat surface. It burns their bare skin and sinks where the tar has grown soft. They stand and search. They don't see anyone. No one that's living, anyway. A few bodies mill around on the other roofs, but this one is clear. As is the next one over.
Number Two checks back down the fire escape. “We need to move! We're dead if we stay here. They're coming!”
Number Four's eyes have lost their life. Three looks at Two, and they run around the border to check other possibilities. Something to climb down, a door to an inner staircase, a rope... anything!
“Shit,” goes Number Three’s breath in a long exhale. There’s nothing. Nothing on this roof. But there is on the next. An open door. An exit. It even has a big sign that says so in red block letters: ROOF EXIT.
“There! We need to get over there!”
Number Two runs to the edge and looks down, then across, trying to calculate, “We can make it. It's not too far. It looks it, but it's not. We can jump it. We have to.”
“You're insane,” speaks up Number Four, “We'll fall!”
“You’d rather be eaten? Fine, you do you. I can make it.”
“Just be quiet,” protests Number Three, “Maybe if we're quiet enough, they won't come all the way up here. I've done it before. I waited them out. It takes a while, but if they lose the sound, they lose interest after a while.”
“Jesus, you're such an idiot,” combats Number Two, “It's your fault we're stuck here in the first place. You opened the door without even a glance inside. They're too close! We can't wait them out. Not now, thanks to you.”
Number Four speaks up again, with frightfully focused eyes this time, “We have to go, now!”
A pointing finger leads to the first hands and heads peeking over the roof's edge.
“Shit!”
That breath again, always exhaling. All three back up several paces. Number Four gives a shake of the forearms and hands, blows hard air, and takes off. They run, they leap, they hit the next roof and roll into a landing. They wave to the others.
“Shit!”
They take off in an unplanned, synchronized sprint. Two moves faster than Three. Feet pound into the surface. Breaths are held. There are no more Shits, and the air falls silent.
Both plant their last step and make the jump. Three rockets over the edge. Two's foot sinks into a soft spot that trips the runner into an overhead tumble. They clear the edge and fall, face first, down to the street below. There's a sound like a hard-boiled egg falling to the kitchen floor. The shell cracks, and the wobbly yellow middle leaks onto the hardwood. There's a swear, and someone has to clean it up.
Three hits the edge hard. Their grip finds it, but the lower half hangs down to the street and the former Number Two. There is a struggle. As if all the running wasn't hard enough, this half pull-up might just be the breaking point.
Number Four reaches over the edge, grabs Three's belt, and pulls. Together, they manage to hit the flat of the roof with no further fatalities. They stand and stare into dead eyes across the small gap. The first ones go over, with reaching arms, and land on top of Two’s still body. They build a small hill, like so many other terrible times in history.
The two remaining runners don't wait around long. They can't watch. You never can. Before all this, you had your looky-loos slowing down for traffic accidents. Watching terror from a distance. But when it becomes normal, daily, hourly, non-stop horror, then you tend to stop looking. It might be a way to not let yourself become it. Fight or flight. They fly away, without taking a needed breath.
Four and Three, the last of the runners, trample down the cool stairwell. They can hardly see in the dark after being in the glaring light. The cool, almost wet walls bring a small reprieve. It lasts all but three flights before the dark gropes back. Sticky hands and gnashing jaws halt their progress and send them along an inner corridor. Doors with numbers screwed just under the peepholes line each side. They start, oddly enough, at 3 and run up to 11.
The door with the number 9 on it stands open, and the runners dive inside. Four slams the door and throws the bolt. A small chain clasps on as a secondary precaution. They breathe in heavy tufts.
Always check. Never just barge right in. It's basics. You should know it by now. You always goddamn check!
The figures standing at the far side of the open living space spring to an un-life and move toward the two intruders. Four jumps over the small kitchen island and lands by the table set for four. Spoiled food lines the top in blackened mold.
Number Three doesn't know what to do. They stand in a stupid, frozen pose just waiting for the inevitable.
If you keep your eyes closed, it's easy to miss what's going on around you. Maybe it's a reflex to avoid seeing the thing that causes you the most fear. Maybe it's a needed detachment from reality to hold on to that last moment of self-preservation. Maybe it's just bullshit, and a weak move made by weak people.
No matter the true meaning, Number Three does this, and Four shouts and slaps at the table.
The bodies follow the sounds, and Three makes out enough of the situation to dart past and open the far window. They climb out to the fire escape that mirrors the one from the previous building, except this one is a newly painted shade of anthracite to match the building's facade. There are yells from inside, but they're killed by the slamming window. Double-paned. Great for winter and noise reduction. It separates everything outside from everything inside.
Number Three becomes the Lone Runner and doesn't hesitate until standing on street level. You can't linger on the gore. Everyone knows that. It’ll get you killed. They peek around the next corner and nearly get their nose bitten off. Goddamn zombies. They take off running. Always goddamn running.
They want to die from the heat, from the exertion, from the dried-up feeling of a waggling tongue. But they go on. They have kids, after all. They're grown, sure, but the oldest is expecting. Don't die yet, Gramps.
This city will be the death of them. They grew up here, but have since moved away. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is as it was. The streets used to be filled with small restaurants, shops and paper stands. Now it's just rows of the same stores selling the same wares.
If Three wasn't running for their life, they'd think how sad this has become. Hipster centers and expensive snack bars. The whole place has gone to shit. Maybe the dead rising isn't the worst thing to happen to a place like this.
The next turn sees a line of standing traffic cones. They merge three lanes into one. Striped tape hangs swaying between them until the line gives way to a segmented metal-grated fence. The pieces link together like those knock-off Lego bricks that don’t quite fit together tightly enough to make a stable structure.
The wave that once followed is now more like a thin trickle. There are gaps on either side. A row of folding tables stands just outside the fence barrier. A sign in large print declares: 1 More Mile, You're Almost There!
They think that rings true. They've almost made it. There's just the last mile. Close your eyes. The end will come.
All those miles behind. All those bodies behind, some moving, some still in the filthy gutters. This is a one-man race, a one-man achievement.
The fence segments start to hold crooked signs promoting sports brands, drinks, and the newest phone models from every company. Silent speaker boxes stand on extended poles. The cables run as snakes to the ground and follow the fence line to a large arch. More block letters make it undeniable: Finish Line!
Number Three looks back at what is now only a handful of bodies stuck on the outer side of the fence barrier. They've done it. They're safe. They think they are.
They cross under the arch and stop running. Finally. Jesus, finally.
Up on a riser sits a new car. It must have been the prize. A goddamn BMW. Here, in the middle of the end of things, is a pristine BMW and a little plastic case holding the key.
Number Three opens the plastic lid and pushes the unlock button. The car lights flash. There's a click.
“I'll be damned.”
It has leather seats. Three presses on the brake, then pushes the start button on the dash. The goddamn thing starts right up. It sputters slightly, but then purrs. The tank is full. The air conditioner blasts on.
Number Three puts it in D and pulls off the platform and down the street. The onboard navigation finds their country place and charts a path. They'll have one hell of a story to tell the rest of the family.
It's a good enough excuse for coming back without all the things they went to the city for in the first place. A new BMW isn't exactly empty-handed, but the family did ask to bring back a long laundry list of other things: canned foods, medicine, first-aid kits, hand tools. It goes on and on.
It takes forty-two minutes to navigate the crowded city streets and a few curses when dead hands scrape along the new paint job. One headlight gets the worst end of a small fender-bender, but all-in-all, a successful trip.
The other items can be found at any one of your standard roadside gas places. The car will need a top-up at some point. The drive isn't a short one. Number Three just needs to remember the basics: You always goddamn check!
Those other three pulled them out of a tight spot the first time that rule wasn't followed. Three won't make that mistake again. No, sir!
The BMW moves to an open lane on the highway. The air conditioner drones. The navigation shows to take an exit sixty-seven miles on. The radio repeats a hit from nineteen eighty-nine.
What a goddamn year that was. Simply the best.