Crazytimes Read online

  Occasionally one or two of them sprints forward and catches up to me, and I have to dispatch them on the run. I’m surprised at how good I’ve gotten swinging the machete while moving.

  As I run, I have to navigate puddles of blood and slime, and hurdle the bodies of the newly deceased. I jump over one of our clients from work—a guy who used to get business cards every few months for his window-washing business. He’s easy to recognize because he’s wearing the same obnoxiously bright orange hat and t-shirt he always wore, to stand out and bring attention to his business. They practically glow. He used to say he’d be working ’til his dying day, and it looks like he was right.

  It’s past dusk now, fully dark, and yet I have no trouble seeing the path ahead. Somehow the power grid is still up and streetlamps are working. Plus, the meteor-things continue to crash all around, temporarily lighting up the sky with their descending fire.

  I wonder what the odds are that I haven’t been hit by one of them yet.

  And just like that, a meteor crashes right behind me, cratering the ground and taking out most of the kids on my tail. What a bizarre stroke of luck, I think. I’ve never been so thankful for an apocalyptic meteor that may actually be some kind of toxic gas-emitting spacecraft to hit the ground by my feet and kill a bunch of children.

  What a day.

  Eventually my pace slows to a jog, and then I stop. My legs are jelly, and I’m not sure how I’m still standing on them. I almost fall to the ground, but I realize there are still a handful of children coming after me, including that maniac with the T-square. Obviously they’ve gotten tired too, though. I wait for each of them to catch up to me, one by one, and I chop them down. It’s easy. I never thought I’d say that about decapitating children, regardless of my feelings about parenthood, but things have changed significantly since I woke up this morning.

  The meteors slow down considerably too. In a matter of minutes they stop completely, and the sky goes totally dark. I can’t even see the stars.

  But I continue moving. Because I have to. I mean, as long as I want to stay alive.

  Do I?

  When the smoke clears—if it clears—what kind of world is going to be left? Do I really want to live in it? And even if I do, what makes me so special? Why should I be one of the lucky survivors? Again.

  This guilt again. Why was I the one who survived? What did I do that was so special? I was a child. But so were they. And I lived and they died.

  I ponder this as I walk alongside some tall iron fencing—the posts terminate in spikes along the top—and chug a bottle of water, then toss the bottle back over my shoulder. Recycling probably bought us some time, but unfortunately it didn’t save the world.

  Under a flickering yellow streetlight, I find the gate. It’s locked with a length of chain and a padlock, but there’s enough slack that it’s still able to swing partially open, and I’m able to squeeze through with a bit of effort.

  I realize where I am pretty quickly, when I stub my toe on something made of stone.

  This is Western Cemetery, and . . . holy shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.

  14

  ZOMBIES. ARE YOU fucking serious? This day has been the greatest fucking cosmic joke ever, and now there are fucking zombies? Because of course there are fucking zombies. Why the hell not?

  Right in the middle of the graveyard, there’s a huge crater with a dull glow coming from the bottom. The clouds of smoke drifting up from it are yellow—there’s enough light from the malfunctioning streetlamps to see that—and just like usual, they drift in various directions, as if they have instructions to visit a dozen different destinations.

  Does this toxic shit raise the dead too? And if so, how?

  I’ve never really understood how zombies were supposed to work anyway. At least, not the ones coming out of the ground. The freshly expired, sure—I could see that. But once a body’s been scraped out and embalmed, stuffed with a mess of detached and deflated organs, and sawdust and rags and whatever else, how is that supposed to work? It’s just a shell of a human, like a handful of spoiled fruit salad with an orange peel wrapped around it.

  Okay, bad analogy. But still.

  It doesn’t change the fact I’m suddenly surrounded by reanimated corpses, moaning and stumbling around the cemetery. Unless it’s all just one big joke.

  Because this has to be a joke, right? What else could explain it? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Whatever this is, whatever is making people crazy, whatever’s making them kill, it’s just a joke. If you don’t laugh at it all, maybe you’ll go crazy yourself.

  I think of Henry Bemis and his circumstances. All alone in the world, he finally had a chance to read all the books he wanted—until his glasses broke.

  I reach into my pocket for the action figure. I want to give my good luck charm a squeeze, but my hand goes right into my pocket and out the hole at the bottom. I look down and find a slash across my pants leg. When did that happen? Thinking back, I guess it could’ve been one of those crazed schoolkids swiping at me, though I could have just as easily snagged my pocket somewhere, like on the cemetery gate I squeezed through. Thankfully I’m not cut—it’s just my pants—but my good luck charm’s gone now, and I hope that’s not a bad omen.

  A man in a filthy suit approaches from my left, slowly, hunched over, his arms hanging slack. His withered legs look as if they can barely support the rest of him. His cheeks are sunken and his eyes are closed. He’s moaning as if in pain, but his mouth stays shut. When he gets close enough I can see the stitches on his eyelids and lips.

  What I don’t see, however, are those purple markings I’ve been seeing on the living. There are no yellow blisters. There is no mutating bubbling flesh. In fact, there’s not much flesh at all.

  Still, the man comes at me, shambling. He bumps into a tombstone, which alters his course slightly, and causes some dirt to fall off his jacket, then he rights himself. Even though he obviously can’t see much—how could his eyes possibly work anyway, even if they weren’t sewn shut?—he seems to know exactly where I’m standing.

  Does he want to eat my flesh? Does he even have the strength to tear his own lips apart?

  I hold still and keep quiet, to conserve the tiniest bit of energy, then when he gets close enough, I stab him right through the chest with my machete. I’m surprised how easily it goes in.

  I’m also surprised how quickly I’ve forgotten the rules of zombie lore. You gotta kill the brain. The brain that’s already dead?

  I tug at the machete, but it’s stuck. I tug again. Why does this keep happening? Must be caught on a rib or something. He swipes at me with one hand, catching the fabric of my shirt on a ragged fingernail. Then I back up a few steps and drop my backpack to the ground, retrieve a knife, and stab the guy right through the eye, trying to make sure I angle upward enough that it breaks through the top of the orbital bone and pierces the brain. I guess I’m successful, because he stops sludging toward me right away and falls face-first to the ground, and the butt of the knife taps and slides against a tombstone. The gust of wind from his body falling reeks of wet earth and burnt rubber.

  I roll the guy over with my foot, surprised at how light he is, and extract the knife from his face. The machete is still stuck in his chest, but with a little bit of wriggling, I’m able to remove it. And just in time too, since a pair of zombie women are suddenly approaching from the opposite direction. One is significantly smaller than the other, which makes me think of them as mother and daughter, even though I’m sure that’s not the case.

  I swipe at the first woman—the mom—with my machete, swinging sideways at her head. I envision the blade going right through, the top of her head popping off like something in a cartoon, but again it gets stuck partway in. It’s easy enough to dislodge this time, though, and it went far enough in that she drops. I’m gonna have to figure out a way to get this thing sharpened. Next hardware store I see, I better grab a stone and some oil. Don’t think I’ll
be backtracking to Homestuff anytime soon.

  With the daughter, I decide to stab into her eye, like I did with the first guy, but using the machete from a slightly greater distance instead. Success.

  I have to say, one nice thing about killing zombies is no blood. They’re all dried up, so it’s just a little bit of dirt and the occasional worm. Not exactly what you see in the movies.

  Much like in the movies, however, they keep coming. I kill one off, then three more appear behind it. I wonder if it’s some latent instinct that still exists in the brain or the body or whatever that makes them chase after the living. No, that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know.

  I’m kind of enjoying their easy dispatch, though. It’s almost like a video game on the easiest level, hacking and slicing through a bunch of enemies who don’t put up too much of a fight.

  But I’m being dumb. What I really need to be doing is finding some food and finally getting tucked away inside some sort of shelter. I could keep slashing zombies, sure, but it’s not like I’m facing an immediate threat. I can outrun them easily. Hell, I can outwalk these husks. So I pick my bag up and slide right back out the gate I came in.

  15

  I JOG FOR about ten minutes and at that point the zombies are so far behind, I can’t see them ever catching up, if they even have the inclination and aren’t distracted by something else, so I slow to a walking pace. A fresh wave of adrenaline has helped push me to this point, but I know I’ll need to eat something soon. And sleep. I desperately need sleep.

  Somehow I’ve forgotten all about the trail mix in my bag until now, so I fish a package out and crunch down on some nuts and seeds and dried fruit, but I realize it’s only going to last me so long. I need to focus on finding a place where I can lay my head down for a few hours, but my second priority is going to be searching for more food.

  The area I’m walking through is primarily residential, similar to my own neighborhood, though I’ve gotten way off track and am no longer anywhere close to my house. Maybe I’ll head back over that way tomorrow. At this point, though, I just need some sleep.

  I come to a church on the corner of a big intersection. It’s an old place, made of stone, big but not mammoth. It looks bigger than it is, actually, because it’s up on a hill. There are a bunch of steps to climb before you can get inside. Seems like a fairly exclusive thing for a place that’s supposed to be so loving, but whatever.

  I remember seeing this church on the news about a year ago when the bell tower collapsed. The rubble is still lying there, and I wonder why it was never cleaned up. Maybe they didn’t have the money? There’s caution tape and big orange construction barriers around that side of the building, though, so I guess they were getting around to it. Then again, visible ruins are certainly a strong way to appeal for donations.

  Anyway, I feel like this might be a good place to hole up, despite the collapsed portion. Something about it is calling to me, and although I’ve never been a religious guy, I decide to follow the feeling. What could possibly go wrong that I haven’t yet encountered today anyway?

  I circle the perimeter of the building before going in, just to make sure there’s no imminent threat waiting to corner me the second I approach one of the doors. Thankfully I don’t encounter anyone.

  I find the door farthest from the ruins and panic for a moment, thinking what if I can’t get in? What if it’s locked? Then I try the door and realize I’m being paranoid. Can you blame me?

  The old wooden door opens an inch, then sticks, so I have to use my shoulder. When it moves, the iron hinges creak under the weight of it. They don’t make ’em like this anymore. The sound makes me freshly nervous, and I pause for a second to make sure I haven’t roused anyone hiding out inside.

  It’s dark as hell in here, I think, then chuckle at my bad pun. If there’s a demon priest inside, I’m gonna lose it, but I’ll be ready to send him back where he came from.

  I should’ve grabbed a flashlight back at Homestuff, or at least some candles and matches. The thought never occurred to me. Dumb.

  When I move inside, I can barely see. It takes a minute, but soon my eyes adjust to the light. I enter the sanctuary from the side and realize I’m up near the altar. I see a trio of three-digit numbers on a placard—hymns from the last service held here.

  I wonder when that was, and if it will be the last service ever. Maybe.

  As I turn the corner, I see a dim glow coming from up front, dancing on the stone walls. My first thought is that somehow a meteor crashed through the stained glass, landing inside the church. Maybe this is a different church than the one I was thinking of, and the meteor took out the tower on its way into the building. But no—the stained glass looks intact from what I can tell.

  As I approach the glow, which is maybe another dumb move, I see what it is. A single red candle with a flickering flame, right up on the altar.

  I scan the room to see who else is here, but I see no evidence of life beyond the candle. Even if someone had just arrived, I would expect to see some supplies, maybe a bag or some blankets or something. But no.

  I step up onto the altar and look around, then I move back down and walk among the pews. There is no evidence of anyone. No crazy people. No mutant people. No dead people. No zombies. No demon priest. Just bibles and hymnals and dust.

  “Hello, Trey,” a voice says softly. It’s so quiet at first, I think I imagine it, but the voice repeats itself. “Hello, Trey.”

  The sound shakes me. I spin around toward the altar again and the streak of light caused by the candle and my movement burns my eyes temporarily. When my vision clears, I don’t see anyone.

  Then some shuffling off to the side catches my eye. There’s an alcove to the right of the altar, and I see a hand wrapped around the edge of the entryway. The candlelight flickers over the stone and the fingers curled around the corner.

  “Who’s there?” I call out. I’m nervous and ready to run if I need to. But this person clearly knows me, which means I must know them.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” the voice says. It’s a little louder now, but calm and welcoming. When you’re not expecting it, though, calm and welcoming can seem downright creepy.

  I slide my machete out in preparation for a fight. I hope I don’t have to use it again, but what’s one more swipe if I need to? I’ve chopped down more people than I could count today, and one more would make zero difference to me.

  I return to the altar, cautious in my movements, and also keeping my wits about me, knowing there could be others lurking in the shadows too. I move up the three steps at the center and move toward the alcove on the side.

  “Been looking for you for quite some time,” the voice says. And as I get closer, a face leans out from the shadows, into the candlelight.

  And it’s my face.

  “Hello, brother.”

  16

  “IT’S BEEN A long time, hasn’t it?” the man—my doppelganger—says, still half tucked away behind the edge of the stone wall.

  One of my brothers? My knees wobble, and my mind reels, trying to reconcile what I’m seeing. My brothers have been gone—dead—since we were kids. Very young kids.

  How is this possible? One of them survived? Was I lied to all those years ago? Have I been grieving and suffering my entire life over something only half true?

  He steps out a little more, and stands there, nude, presenting himself to me beside the edge of the wall, as if to give me a moment, a chance to believe that what I’m seeing is real. His face is just like mine. His body is just like mine. It’s like looking in a mirror. Even the birthmark on my thigh is on his thigh.

  Is this real? Can it be?

  “It is,” he says. “And there’s more for you to see.” There’s a slight curl to his lip. A smile. Not a crazed smile, but a friendly one. A loving, brotherly smile.

  I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper. Suddenly some bile works its way up, and it burns, and I have to swallow again to get rid
of it. It’s acid on the moment, but I won’t let it ruin our reunion.

  My brother steps completely out from the alcove, now fully illuminated by the flickering light of the candle on the altar. And my other brother is there too. He walks with a strange sideways movement, like a shuffle, but smoother. It looks odd, but also seems familiar.

  I’m stunned. They’re both alive? Somehow it makes sense. I put my machete away.

  Memories flood back from our shared early childhood. My brothers and I eating meals together, our parents dressing us, changing our diapers, teaching us colors. Reading us stories.

  Things I probably shouldn’t remember because we were so young. But I do.

  How many boys? One, two, three! Three little boys! That’s right! How many arms? One, two, three, four, five… What comes after five? Six! That’s right, boys! So smart!

  Then my brothers getting sick, feeling weak, while I felt strong. Them withering. Me thriving.

  They step closer to me, moving in tandem, as always. I’m oddly happy to see that they’re still attached at the bases of their skulls, and at the tops of their backs and shoulders.

  I was right there with them once. I still have the scars. But life is unpredictable, even if it sometimes does come full circle.

  I have this memory from early on. Of doctors speaking with my parents in serious, grim tones. Silent tears flowing. Difficult decisions being made. Fear and disappointment and sadness. Grief. Guilt.

  I was the only one of the three who had any real chance of survival. I was the one who was growing the way he was supposed to. But it was only because my body was depleting my brothers of what they needed. In a way, I was cannibalizing them, though I was unable to control it.