2. Wilder
Chapter two
Wilder
M y boots bit into my blistered heels as I shifted my weight side to side, trying to find a semblance of comfort. With a concrete wall at my back and the eerie landscape of a deserted city in front of me, it was a luxury not likely to come any time soon. A city devoid of people should be quiet but without the sounds of traffic or electricity buzzing through wires, everything else was amplified ten-fold. Whispers of early fall propelled paper over the sidewalks, back to school displays filled store windows. Crows quarked ceaselessly as they predated upon overflowing garbage bins and the dead. The occasional transformer exploded, the boom echoing along alleyways and startling me every single time even though I tried to be prepared for the next one. Again, I scanned the block for a flash of camouflage or the sound of human footsteps, but there was no sign of my men.
Of course, the city wasn’t truly deserted. Freshly formed gangs were holed up here and there, sitting on stockpiles of supplies they’ve looted and hoarded. Dangerous, desperate people drunk on a dram of power. We entered the outskirts of Copper Ridge three days ago as a platoon. Fifty soldiers deep, all able-bodied but afraid. Silence fell over us when we saw the abandoned checkpoint. These had been erected as an attempt to keep order, but many were overrun or else fell when the soldiers grew sick of their posts. Why were we here if it didn’t work out the first time? As we divided into smaller sections, one of which I was responsible for as Sergeant, I had a sinking suspicion that separating was a mistake. In fact, the whole operation seemed like a mess. During my worst moments, I wondered if they simply wanted to get rid of us. How much could the powers above really keep things together? The names and faces of my missing men flashed through my mind like a slideshow. How did fifty become one? The soldiers who went missing the same day we arrived in the city? I suspected they were AWOL. There’d been whispers for weeks while we laid low at Canadian Forces Base Cumberland, waiting for news that was always destined for tomorrow.
How long will we hide here?
Who’s in charge, anyway?
They’re not paying me anymore. I’m going home.
Could I blame them? Trying to search a city that’s beyond repair for survivors felt like a fool's errand. Many would rather die on the open road at the hands of the stumbling undead than be stuck in a city that isn’t even home. After that, we lost three who panicked when a group of undead got the drop on us. Then Addams disappeared without a trace. I shook my head hard at the memory of waking up from a short doze and finding my friend gone. The one person in the group I considered a brother. That stark realisation that I was alone had struck a fear in me that was still simmering beneath the surface, a fear that I don’t ever remember having in the past. I wasn’t the lone ranger type, I liked people. With the world the way it was now, community would be beyond important. It was imperative to our survival. Addams, almost ten years my junior, had gone missing, and I couldn’t help but feel responsible. Capable and clever, but a bit naive. The guy could shoot a piece of dust if you told him that was his target. I hated the thought of someone getting the drop on him.
My thighs trembled as I resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to sit. Being on my ass wasn’t a defensible position but neither was having tired legs if I needed to run. The undead weren’t fast, but they were relentless. Never slowing until the sun crested the horizon. The monsters seemed to be the opposite of solar powered. Sure, if you got too close or made noise they’d come after you. But, between night and day, day was the lesser of two evils when navigating a torn down town. Shadows lengthened across the concrete, and as I wiped a bead of sweat off my brow, I knew I needed a plan for the night. Sitting here with my gun across my lap wasn’t an option. My supplies were limited. This wasn’t like it was on deployment overseas where I carried a sixty pound pack. I eyeballed the surrounding buildings, mostly made up of older low-rise apartments and ransacked shops. The newer section of Copper Ridge with the fancy condos and boutiques was several blocks away now. With transformers blowing, fires were a very real threat. The brick building that’d been shoring me up for the last few hours seemed as good an option as any. What I wouldn’t give for my full squad to clear it. If there were monsters inside, I’d never be able to take on the whole place alone. An empty unit that I could get a few hours of shut eye inside, that maybe had food, would be a dream. Then I could go back to searching for Addams tomorrow. I wouldn’t leave him behind. My stomach clenched at the reminder of a meal. Fear and adrenaline were the ultimate appetite suppressants, but as I racked up the steps with my pack in tow, I was burning too many calories to go without some sustenance for much longer. Hell, I’d already leaned out in the past weeks since everything went down. Back at the base they didn’t mess around with rationing.
With a longing glance for any sign of my missing friend and slightly stronger legs, I shouldered my pack, checked my weapon and rolled my tight shoulders. As the sun sunk lower in the west, the east side of the building was an expanse of shadow. Dark brick and black iron railings surrounded the front entrance, swallowing the light. I winced each time glass crunched under my heavy boots. Noise discipline was as important as ever, and I cursed the looters that have smashed the windows and doors on most buildings. Stepping over the glass was quieter than having to break it myself to gain entrance, though. The glass thinned as I moved further inside the dim entrance way, the wall-to-wall tile littered with dry, curling leaves. After spending days outdoors, aside from brief explorations of other buildings for survivors, the still air felt too quiet. Stifling. Without the birds singing their goodbyes to the sun, my heart hammered in my ears.
The light affixed to my C8 sliced through the darkness, revealing a wall of mailboxes, two overturned leather armchairs, and a door to the stairwell on my right. A rattling rasp turned my head, an outstretched hand coming into focus first as a lone creature lumbered in my direction. Stepping back to create distance, I ensured it truly was on its own. My palms sweated as I gripped my knife, took three smooth strides towards the staggering shell of a man, and plunged the blade into its temple. My boot connected with its pelvis, pushing the body backwards so I could reclaim my knife. Tomorrow, if I was lucky enough to see it, I'd clear the rest of the first floor. For now, I wanted to go up. To get away from the street level where so many windows were broken. To put some vertical distance between me and the undead who’d own the streets in a matter of hours. Easing open the firedoor, I cleared the stairwell methodically. The emergency lighting, long since dead, left my firearm as the only source. Blackness pressed in on me from all sides as I swept the beam of light from left to right, trying to stay focused and not imagine things that weren’t even there. At the door to the second floor, I prepared myself to move forward. My breaths were a shaky staccato after the flight of stairs, a testament to my exhaustion and hunger.
Faint odours of decay and damp wrinkled my nose as I eased open the door. Behind me a window, this one intact, framed the dusky sky and the clouds being whisked along by the steady wind. Movement in the street caught my eye, habit forcing me to flatten myself as much as possible against the wall. Peering around the corner, I saw a small group of undead shuffling toward the lobby. The movement was so wrong, stilted and awkward as their arms hung limply at their sides. They bumped off each other, occasionally veering away from the group before being drawn back like a moth to flame.
“Fuck.”
I urged them to keep going, to not accidentally wander inside. Handling the one was more than enough for today. Trying to take down a group on your own wasn’t just a recipe for disaster, it was the whole damn cookbook. They wouldn’t be able to navigate the doors and stairwells, but that didn’t mean I wanted them milling about below me. Shooting them would prevent them from hurting me or anyone else, but the window was whole. A gunshot would only draw others toward the building I still hoped could be a temporary refuge. Hell, it could draw them toward me from inside the building. Turning away, eyes burning with a combination of fatigue and distress, I made my way down the carpeted hall.
The first apartment door was ajar. It wasn’t likely this building had any survivors, not with the efforts we’d already went through to locate them. Citizens were ordered to vacate to refugee camps weeks ago, but there was always a chance. With the tip of my rifle, I pushed open the door. The smell of rot was overpowering. I coughed, turning my nose into my shoulder. On the bed was an elderly man, many weeks gone.
“Christ,” I swore under my breath, hanging my head for a moment.
The only other room to check in the bachelor apartment was the bathroom, and after it proved empty, I backed out, shutting the door with a click and drawing a quick x in the centre of the door with a black Sharpie. I zigzagged my way along. Many of the doors were broken, wood splintered violently in a way that made me worried for the old occupants. With each unit I cleared, I resisted the urge to slow and search through the kitchens and bathrooms for supplies. Having someone, or something, sneak up behind me while I tore into a pudding cup would be a fucking embarrassment. The very last door at the dark end of the hall was shut. There were no gashes in the wood from forced entry. I leaned against it, nearly out of steam as I tried the handle. Locked. There was no discernable smell creeping from the cracks. Propping my rifle against the wall, I held a flashlight between my teeth, taking comfort in the familiar metallic tang while I jimmied the lock. Could I kick it down? Easily. But then this apartment would be as indefensible as the others. An intact door with some heavy furniture slid in front of it would allow me to sleep with both my eyes shut for the first time in days.
A smile graced my lips as I twisted the door handle and gained entry. Warmer than the others, a faint smoky scent laced the air. After the sickly smell of death, I welcomed it, even if that meant another part of the city was burning. A thump preceded by a crash and a low moan came from the direction of the bathroom. By now, I knew the layout of these tiny apartments. Go figure. The one unit I thought might be secure and it was harbouring one of them . Nothing lunged at me when I opened the bathroom door. The beam of my light revealed a woman in a nightgown, suspended from the ceiling by her neck while her pale arms and legs flailed in pursuit of my flesh. A crescent-shaped wound, red and angry against her light skin, caught my eye. The poor woman had no idea that cutting off her air supply wouldn’t stop the poison that spread from the dirty bite. Her body would live on in perpetuity once infected, until my knife slid through her eye socket with a squelch.
…
The full tall boy dresser was a bitch to move but it blocked the apartment door like a charm. Anyone trying to get through there would make a hell of a racket. With the former occupant of Apartment 209 disposed of, the body dragged far down the hall and covered with a clean bed sheet, I could finally relax. At first, I sat numbly on the edge of the bed, beginning to process the complex layers of emotions that floated precariously close to the surface. The seminars I’d sat through to help us detect the early signs of PTSD early in my service seem laughably inadequate for the things I’d seen. How did you begin to compartmentalise all the horror when you knew something worse would be around the next corner?
I ducked beneath the tail of the rope left by the desperate woman, and pissed down the bathtub drain. On my way to the kitchen, I tried not to glance at the photos lining the halls. In the morning, I’d search the building for supplies. For now, I held my breath to block the scent of rotting food as I opened the fridge. At the sight of sealed bottles of water I nearly cried. Snagging two, I gulped the first as I shuffled back to the bathroom. With the other, I wet a soft, pink washcloth and scrubbed my face, neck, and hands with a bar of soap. Brown water splattered against the edges of the porcelain. Fully stripping down would be preferable, but it felt too vulnerable, and who knew where my next drink would come from.
Only when my head hit the pillow and I started sinking into the depths of sleep did I remember I left my damn boots on. No matter how many times I tried to activate my stomach muscles and sit up to remove them, I couldn’t escape the lure of the soft bed and my heavy eyelids. And when I was on the edge of true sleep, the scent of smoke grazed my nostrils again, but I was too tired to care.