The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology by Christopher Golden Page B

basement.
     
    Copper looks at an old stain on the wall.
     
    Fetus and Shiner and McFay sit on the bench by the furnace, which hasn’t fired up in months.
     
    I sit by the two amputees in the far corner.
     
    Copper sits in his basement with us.
     
    We hear the crunch of gravel outside, footsteps on the driveway.
     
    Copper sits in his basement.
     
    The piping in the window moves.
     
    Copper sits in his basement.
     
    The piping shifts and then slowly slides out of the window frame, into the night.
     
    Copper sits in the basement.
     
    Fetus and Shiner and I sit tight.
     
    McFay sits still.
     
    A flashlight beam cuts in from the open window.
     
    Copper sits in the basement, satisfied with his plan.
     
    We’re positioned just so.
     
    The flashlight beam can’t reach us.
     
    The beam alights on lengths of copper pipes and coils of wiring.
     
    T’s head appears at the window.
     
    Copper cocks his head slightly, listening.
     
    There’s only the sound of T, moving with all the stealth he can muster.
     
    It isn’t much.
     
    T is alone.
     
    Copper sits in the basement.
     
    T leans his head in farther, craning for a better look-see.
     
    Copper gives the order.
     
    Copper’s hands are on T, his fingers locked around the kid’s head, one thumb deep in his left eye socket.
     
    T shrieks like a girl and tries to lash out, but I’ve got his right arm and Fetus is on the other and he’s our wishbone.
     
    We pull as one and something gives and something splashes black from the windowsill and something deeper than shadow pools across the floor, and T’s screams grow louder as we pull him in.
     
    Fetus bends to drink from the floor in a rectangle of moonlight.
     
    I see Stout’s smile.
     
    His teeth are black and violet in the dim light, his chin is wet, dimples deep.
     
    Before he is out of eyeshot, he gulps like a newborn, stopping only once to tip his head back and gurgle with joy.
     
    Window becomes mouth, cellar becomes throat; broken glass teeth slip through T.
     
    T spills inside, and we take him and his and all he ever was and never was, all he ever had and all he ever might have been but wasn’t and will never be.
     
    I help Copper pull T’s wiring and strip his plumbing.
     
    T’s song is sweet, shrill, short. Copper is humming to himself.
     
    Dark, tough laces of T cat-cradle between us, ropes of him spill, stretch, and break. The cement is baptized with beads of him and puddles of him and steaming streams and rivers and oceans of him.
     
    We spread him; he is bread, water, wine.
     
    We dig in.
     
    Blood becomes rust, bone becomes sliver; flesh becomes fire, death becomes home.
     
    Home.
     
    Always home.
     

IN THE DUST
     
    BY TIM LEBBON
     
     
     
     
    We should have known that one day they’d refuse to let us leave.
     
    I’d already seen the fresh smoke rising from the cremation pits, and a sensation of cold dread had settled in my stomach. But I chose not to mention it to the others. Jamie’s bluff and bluster would only piss me off, and I feared it would send Bindy over the edge. If in the end events drove her to madness or suicide, I didn’t want to be the catalyst.
     
    So it wasn’t until we reached the old stone river bridge that the truth began to dawn.
     
    ‘What the fuck?’ Jamie said.
     
    ‘Toby . . .’ Bindy let go of the cart and grabbed my hand. Before the plague, we’d only known each other in passing, and there was nothing sexual here, but contact helped her cope. As for me . . . it only made me think of the past.
     
    ‘They’ve blocked the bridge,’ I said.
     
    ‘And they’re burning something in the pits.’ Jamie jogged off ahead of us, approaching the barrier of roughly laid concrete block and barbed wire they’d built while we’d been searching.
     
    ‘Toby . . .?’ Bindy said again, her hand squeezing hard.
     
    ‘It’s okay,’ I said, squeezing back. Though I knew it was not.
     
    I looked down at the cart we’d been pushing.