1.1 - In the (DEAD) Heat of the Night

The HVAC stopped working a week ago; power to the building—and to most of the block—had finally gone out, necessitating that the windows be opened during the hotter parts of the afternoon. It’s the tail end of an unseasonably warm October, less than a month since Outbreak, and the vinegar sweet smell of rotting flesh grows stronger every day.

The mid day stench is the worst, even for those whose noses have grown accustomed. The smell enters from the streets below, making its presence known like an inept burglar, who, after making himself at home, strikes up conversations with his victims. At night and in the early morning, the temperature drops—not quite freezing yet, but cold enough to close the windows—and there is respite enough to sleep.

Outside, the dead are restless, moaning their displeasure to each other.

—I know he’s up there.

—Brains!

Jack wakes for the third time. The bedroom is dark, shut in from the moonlight by thick heavy curtains. Not yet three A.M., he estimates. He shivers. Wrapping the blanket around his body tighter and over his head, he curls himself into a ball.

—Personally, I think the Green Party’s got their priorities ass backwards.

Sleep is a rarity these days.

Something must’ve piqued their interest, Jack posits, rolling over onto his back. He lays silent, listening intently to the sound of shuffling feet moving away from his building. More moans: louder now, guttural. They’re not just curious anymore, they’re communicating, signaling each other to the hunt. Jack closes his eyes, concentrates.

He hears the footfalls of the living in the distance, running, stumbling in the dark. They’re several blocks away, Jack calculates.

“Run!” He hears a male voice scream. “Run!” The scream bounces off buildings unimpeded. A thriving human world no longer existed in the city, no longer produced sounds as living and organic as the society that produced it, sounds that, even this late at the night, would have drown out the frantic survivors. Someone collides into a trashcan and the cacophony reverberates like the clanging together of cymbals in a marching band. Idiots! They make too much noise.

Jack listens. Run! Echo. Three sets of running feet. Body falling over trashcan. Scream: female, terror. Two sets of footfalls. The heavier set keeps running. The other stops, goes back for the one who fell.

“Get up!” It is a different woman’s voice, older with a smoker’s rasp. “Get up!” Running, running. Three sets of footfalls getting closer. Louder.

Closer!

Jack bolts out of bed towards the window, stumbling loudly. Halfway there, Jack stops. There are still zombies in the building, locked in apartments, roaming the halls. Some even move between the floors, following sounds long forgotten. Just got rid of the last bunch, he reminds himself reproachfully. Several days after Outbreak, Jack was digging through the hall closet looking for anything that could be useful to his survival and a box of Christmas decoration fell over spilling its contents. A Missus Clause doll rolled out and started singing a bawdy song, its butt checks shaking to the music, poking out through the strategically place holes of her skirt. It was a party favorite. The noise attracted the dead to his door. They stayed for days, calling for his flesh, until gunshots rung out in another part of the building, taking the attention off Jack.

He takes a breath then walks calmly the rest of the way to the window and peeks out. Jack’s building is situated on the top of a T intersection and, looking out from his fourth floor apartment, he sees three beams of light coming up the leg of the T towards his building. The beams swing wildly up and down and side to side in stride with the running survivors.

Using flashlights are a bad idea, Jack says to himself. The light kills night vision and visibility is limited to what the beams actually shine on. The survivors can’t see the horde of zombies they are running into.