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Bloom and I fished from one of the big industrial docks where cargo ships used to unload. From our position, we could make out the distant shapes of Moll Grimes’s generator construction site, the one Timber said he was working on. The smell of industry had dissipated over the last five years, but the ammonia stench of fish still permeated the air. Shad ran in this river. So did sturgeon, herring, and catfish. In my opinion, catfish were the rats of the underwater world, scarfing up whatever fell to the bottom. On a human scale, Bloom and I probably also counted as bottom feeders. The Living Dead were the sharks.
If I could ever manage to choke down a worm, I’d never go hungry again. But while I couldn’t stomach the thought of swallowing something so cold and slimy, the bluegill loved worms, and I loved the bluegill, so it was a win-win situation. This early in the spring, though, the fish stayed hunkered down deep, and that probably explained our bad luck.
Bloom and I managed to fill one measly stringer with a few skinny breams. If we picked around the tiny bones, we might’ve had enough meat to make a half-decent meal. Our harvest was barely worth the effort, but at least it had broken up the monotony of fruitless scavenging.
In the early afternoon, we put away our equipment, wound up our lines, and started for home. Bloom and I stayed to the middle of the street, shunning the dark places where the Rotters liked to hide. No matter where we walked, though, we couldn’t avoid Mother Nature, and she must have had it in for us. We’d awoken that morning to a clear sky, but throughout the day, the clouds had gathered as if conspiring to blot out the sun. We picked up our pace as I caught the first whiff of rain.
The wind swelled and licked at our necks. Bloom turned up the collar of her coat, an oiled duster like the cowboys wore. She also sported a wide-brimmed hat that reminded me of the one Keen Jane Colt used to wear in the posters advertising her Wild West shows.
I raised my voice over the roar of a nasty gust of wind. “Think we should run?”
“I guess we should,” Bloom said. Our cane poles, gear, and fish stringer made running a tricky task, but our fear of encountering the deceased and hungry motivated us. The clack of our booted feet striking the cobblestone street echoed off the buildings around us. In my ears, the clatter sounded like forty feet instead of four, and a sinking feeling chilled my gut. Reluctantly, I peered over my shoulder. Damn. So it wasn’t just my and Bloom’s footsteps I had heard, after all.
“Uh, Bloom—”
“Don’t say it. I can already smell them.” She picked up her pace, and I ran faster, trying to keep up with her. “How many?” she shouted, raising her voice over the pounding of our feet and the thudding of our hearts.
“I don’t know. Can’t count that fast.”
The fresher they were, the faster they ran, and the older bodies shambled and hitched at a surprising rate when motivated, sort of like a donkey loping after a carrot. They didn’t run quietly either. The dead sent up a cacophony of grunts, moans, and shrieks that raised hairs on my neck and sent chills slinking down my spine. I pictured a gray, decomposing hand reaching for me and stifled a squeal.
“How many more... blocks do you guess?” Talking and running was more of a challenge than I was up to.
Bloom was panting heavily too. “Four... or five.”
My legs burned, and my lungs heaved like bellows. I practiced my shooting all the time, but I should have added running to my regular training regimen.
“We’ll make it,” Bloom said. “We have to.”
If we kept up our pace, we would outrun the dead, but four blocks was a long way on a mostly empty stomach. Plus, Bloom and I had to stop long enough to bring down the fire escape ladder. I said a little prayer, even though my belief in a benevolent and merciful God had severely deteriorated over the past few years.
The Bible said the dead would rise in the end times, and some people believed what had happened was the fulfillment of prophesy. The Bible also said there would be trumpets and angels to escort believers to Heaven. I had heard plenty of cries and screams and sirens and whistles, but no trumpets. I never saw any angels, either, and I shot Bishop Carmichael in the head when I caught him trying to eat a little boy in the middle of Fifth Avenue. He was still wearing his clerical collar when he went down. That was no kind of Rapture if you asked me.
A block away from the Savings and Loan, Bloom stumbled and dropped hard to one knee. The fishing poles flew from her grip and clattered to the ground. I heaved her up to her feet, and we left our equipment behind. That pause gave me a chance to look behind us. The calls of our pursuers must have awakened their brethren because what might have been twenty when we first started running now looked closer to forty.
My heart sank. We’re never going to make it.
“Come on, Bloom.” I tugged her arm. The fall must have hurt her, because she limped every time her right foot hit the ground. Her injury slowed our progress, and the dead gained ground. “We’re almost there.”
“Go on ahead of me,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Don’t be a dummy. I can’t get the ladder down without you.” What if we couldn’t even make it to the ladder? Either way, I’d go down swinging before I’d leave my sister behind, sacrificing her to that mindless swarm of gnashing teeth and clawing fingers. With dread rising inside me like a storm-surge flood, I reached for my knife.
A heavy footstep clunked beside me. Yelping, I turned toward the sound, my knife drawn. Every muscle in me froze with surprise as the gears in my brain whirred, trying to make sense the sudden, unexpected arrival of the person now standing beside me. “Where...” I coughed and tried again. “Where in the undead hell did you come from?”