Al Bruno III
The living dead shambled aimlessly down the street, their clothes and flesh in tatters. Heart pounding, I angled the van around them as best I could. Their slimy fingers flailed at the vehicle as it passed, leaving streaks across the metal.
Niagara Falls had been a desperate hope—maybe there would be settlements on the Canadian side. Instead, abandoned cars clogged the roads, and shattered storefronts gaped like broken teeth. The Pancake House burned, grocery stores had been looted clean, and zombies milled inside a department store showroom, gnawing confusedly on half-clothed mannequins. Every few miles, I tried the CB radio, searching for any voice, any sign of help.
Beside me, the passenger seat overflowed with ammo and weapons. Medical supplies and food were in the back with Lyta, who panted through each contraction. None of this had been planned—you have to understand that. None of it.
Florida had been home once, but everyone had been heading north since the outbreak. The theory was that colder temperatures might slow the undead. Whether it was true or not, it seemed worth a shot.
Lyta had been stranded on I-90 when I found her, her Volvo hopelessly clogged with zombie remains. They had begun swarming her car. Pulling over, I took out enough of them to give her time to run for my van.
Over the last year, my aim had become deadly precise. When this all started, I hadn’t even known how to fire a gun. Guess all those hours playing DOOM had finally paid off.
At first, I thought I’d drop her off at a settlement. When I asked where she was headed, she gave a simple answer.
“North.”
And just like that, we became traveling companions. It felt good to have someone to talk to again, someone to watch my back while foraging. She wasn’t stunning, but maybe she could have been, if not for something... sour about her looks. Still, she was good company, and in the back of the van, when we made love, she was eager and welcoming.
That was then. Now, the gas gauge hovered at a quarter tank, and Lyta moaned in pain. Twenty hours of labor, and still no baby. If something didn’t change soon, she was going to die.
Desperate, I tried the CB again. A settlement, a military base—anywhere with a doctor. Silence.
I should have pulled out. Or worn a condom. But she’d told me she couldn’t have kids, something wrong with her ovaries. Something gynecological—I don’t remember exactly. But she got pregnant anyway. Figures. I’d never won a damn thing in my life before.
Then an idea hit me. Ocean World was up ahead. The place had rides, animal exhibits—dolphins, killer whales. A place like that had to have first aid kits. Maybe several.
Lyta gasped my name over and over as I pulled into the empty parking lot. We passed the skeletal remains of a bear, but otherwise, it was clear. Probably, the zombies had already eaten everything here months ago. They weren’t picky—I’d seen them devour anything from cows to kittens. Still, they seemed to prefer human flesh. Maybe we just tasted better.
I parked as close to the main entrance as possible. Lyta was beyond walking now. Promising to find a cart, I made for the entrance, but she clutched at me, begging not to be left behind.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took to calm her down. Jesus. Fifteen minutes wasted.
Locking her inside the van, I grabbed my rifle and handgun, stuffing extra ammo into my jeans pockets. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But zombies were like cockroaches. They got everywhere.
Ocean World must have been fun once. Now, the overgrown grass swallowed walkways, and rides creaked in the wind. A sign pointed toward the Visitor’s Aid Station—my destination.
Most of the animals had died in their pens, likely of starvation. The bears hadn’t been so lucky; zombies had gotten to them first, stripping them to the bone.
Movement near the "Snack Shack" caught my eye. Two zombies staggered in front of it, grotesquely bloated. I huddled against the aquarium building, considering whether to take them out. Gunfire might attract more. Instead, I decided to cut through the aquarium and take the long way around.
The archway above read: Explore the Wonders of the Deep. Inside, darkness swallowed me whole.
I’d forgotten the flashlight, but there was no turning back now. The stench of rotting fish filled the air. My fingers brushed against glass tanks slick with condensation and filth. The passage curved—was I going in circles?
Then, the sound of wet, dragging footsteps.
Something moved in the shadows.
I called out. No answer. The figure lurched forward.
I fired. The shot missed. The muzzle flash illuminated a zombie—an Ocean World tour guide, now a grotesque husk.
The bullet shattered a fish tank. A torrent of water and dead barracudas slammed into the zombie, knocking it off balance. As it struggled to rise, I took another shot. It twitched once, then stilled.
Slumping against the wall, I struggled to push down the exhaustion. There were times, before Lyta, when I had thought about ending it all. Held a gun under my chin, waiting for courage. It never came. The idea of oblivion scared me. The idea of something after this? That scared me more.
But I couldn’t die now.
The Visitor’s Aid Station was stocked. Bandages, antibiotics—wheelchairs.
Grabbing one, I ran back. No detour through the aquarium this time. Two shots took down the zombies near the "Snack Shack."
Lyta was hyperventilating when I reached her. A damp stain darkened the crotch of her sweatpants. Not blood. Not water. Something else.
Not good.
She kissed my hand, murmuring, “I didn’t think you’d come back. I love you.”
I shushed her and started loading her into the wheelchair. Every movement sent pain slicing through her.
Halfway to the Visitor’s Aid Station, something in the amphitheater caught my eye. A massive black-and-white shape floated in the murky water of the whale tank. Had that been there before?
Zombies crawled across its bloated body like maggots.
One tumbled over the edge, landing on the ground with a wet smack. Others followed, spilling out of the tank like a nightmare.
Lyta screamed.
Gripping the wheelchair, I ran. The station was just ahead.
Then the wheel hit a crack in the pavement.
The chair pitched forward. Lyta slammed onto the ground. The impact sent me sprawling.
Zombies closed in.
Three shots dropped as many, but the rest came on, relentless.
Lyta struggled to rise, too swollen, too weak.
“Save yourself!” she gasped. “Leave me!”
Could I? Without her, I could outrun them. And she might not survive childbirth anyway.
The settlements in the north called to me.
Legs tensed.
The squelching of undead footsteps filled the air.
Then—
With a roar, I hurled the wheelchair into the horde. It knocked several over, but the others pressed on.
Somehow, I lifted her and ran.
By the time I reached the station, every muscle burned. Lyta moaned, contractions wracking her body.
Cold hands latched onto my neck, yanking me backward.
I screamed.
Lyta grabbed my pistol and fired over my shoulder. The hands loosened. She kept shooting.
Hours later, barricaded inside, I watched her breastfeed our newborn child.
The undead loomed outside. Our supplies dwindled. Escape seemed impossible.
But for now, none of that mattered.
For now, we were still alive.
Niagara Falls had been a desperate hope—maybe there would be settlements on the Canadian side. Instead, abandoned cars clogged the roads, and shattered storefronts gaped like broken teeth. The Pancake House burned, grocery stores had been looted clean, and zombies milled inside a department store showroom, gnawing confusedly on half-clothed mannequins. Every few miles, I tried the CB radio, searching for any voice, any sign of help.
Beside me, the passenger seat overflowed with ammo and weapons. Medical supplies and food were in the back with Lyta, who panted through each contraction. None of this had been planned—you have to understand that. None of it.
Florida had been home once, but everyone had been heading north since the outbreak. The theory was that colder temperatures might slow the undead. Whether it was true or not, it seemed worth a shot.
Lyta had been stranded on I-90 when I found her, her Volvo hopelessly clogged with zombie remains. They had begun swarming her car. Pulling over, I took out enough of them to give her time to run for my van.
Over the last year, my aim had become deadly precise. When this all started, I hadn’t even known how to fire a gun. Guess all those hours playing DOOM had finally paid off.
At first, I thought I’d drop her off at a settlement. When I asked where she was headed, she gave a simple answer.
“North.”
And just like that, we became traveling companions. It felt good to have someone to talk to again, someone to watch my back while foraging. She wasn’t stunning, but maybe she could have been, if not for something... sour about her looks. Still, she was good company, and in the back of the van, when we made love, she was eager and welcoming.
That was then. Now, the gas gauge hovered at a quarter tank, and Lyta moaned in pain. Twenty hours of labor, and still no baby. If something didn’t change soon, she was going to die.
Desperate, I tried the CB again. A settlement, a military base—anywhere with a doctor. Silence.
I should have pulled out. Or worn a condom. But she’d told me she couldn’t have kids, something wrong with her ovaries. Something gynecological—I don’t remember exactly. But she got pregnant anyway. Figures. I’d never won a damn thing in my life before.
Then an idea hit me. Ocean World was up ahead. The place had rides, animal exhibits—dolphins, killer whales. A place like that had to have first aid kits. Maybe several.
Lyta gasped my name over and over as I pulled into the empty parking lot. We passed the skeletal remains of a bear, but otherwise, it was clear. Probably, the zombies had already eaten everything here months ago. They weren’t picky—I’d seen them devour anything from cows to kittens. Still, they seemed to prefer human flesh. Maybe we just tasted better.
I parked as close to the main entrance as possible. Lyta was beyond walking now. Promising to find a cart, I made for the entrance, but she clutched at me, begging not to be left behind.
Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took to calm her down. Jesus. Fifteen minutes wasted.
Locking her inside the van, I grabbed my rifle and handgun, stuffing extra ammo into my jeans pockets. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But zombies were like cockroaches. They got everywhere.
Ocean World must have been fun once. Now, the overgrown grass swallowed walkways, and rides creaked in the wind. A sign pointed toward the Visitor’s Aid Station—my destination.
Most of the animals had died in their pens, likely of starvation. The bears hadn’t been so lucky; zombies had gotten to them first, stripping them to the bone.
Movement near the "Snack Shack" caught my eye. Two zombies staggered in front of it, grotesquely bloated. I huddled against the aquarium building, considering whether to take them out. Gunfire might attract more. Instead, I decided to cut through the aquarium and take the long way around.
The archway above read: Explore the Wonders of the Deep. Inside, darkness swallowed me whole.
I’d forgotten the flashlight, but there was no turning back now. The stench of rotting fish filled the air. My fingers brushed against glass tanks slick with condensation and filth. The passage curved—was I going in circles?
Then, the sound of wet, dragging footsteps.
Something moved in the shadows.
I called out. No answer. The figure lurched forward.
I fired. The shot missed. The muzzle flash illuminated a zombie—an Ocean World tour guide, now a grotesque husk.
The bullet shattered a fish tank. A torrent of water and dead barracudas slammed into the zombie, knocking it off balance. As it struggled to rise, I took another shot. It twitched once, then stilled.
Slumping against the wall, I struggled to push down the exhaustion. There were times, before Lyta, when I had thought about ending it all. Held a gun under my chin, waiting for courage. It never came. The idea of oblivion scared me. The idea of something after this? That scared me more.
But I couldn’t die now.
The Visitor’s Aid Station was stocked. Bandages, antibiotics—wheelchairs.
Grabbing one, I ran back. No detour through the aquarium this time. Two shots took down the zombies near the "Snack Shack."
Lyta was hyperventilating when I reached her. A damp stain darkened the crotch of her sweatpants. Not blood. Not water. Something else.
Not good.
She kissed my hand, murmuring, “I didn’t think you’d come back. I love you.”
I shushed her and started loading her into the wheelchair. Every movement sent pain slicing through her.
Halfway to the Visitor’s Aid Station, something in the amphitheater caught my eye. A massive black-and-white shape floated in the murky water of the whale tank. Had that been there before?
Zombies crawled across its bloated body like maggots.
One tumbled over the edge, landing on the ground with a wet smack. Others followed, spilling out of the tank like a nightmare.
Lyta screamed.
Gripping the wheelchair, I ran. The station was just ahead.
Then the wheel hit a crack in the pavement.
The chair pitched forward. Lyta slammed onto the ground. The impact sent me sprawling.
Zombies closed in.
Three shots dropped as many, but the rest came on, relentless.
Lyta struggled to rise, too swollen, too weak.
“Save yourself!” she gasped. “Leave me!”
Could I? Without her, I could outrun them. And she might not survive childbirth anyway.
The settlements in the north called to me.
Legs tensed.
The squelching of undead footsteps filled the air.
Then—
With a roar, I hurled the wheelchair into the horde. It knocked several over, but the others pressed on.
Somehow, I lifted her and ran.
By the time I reached the station, every muscle burned. Lyta moaned, contractions wracking her body.
Cold hands latched onto my neck, yanking me backward.
I screamed.
Lyta grabbed my pistol and fired over my shoulder. The hands loosened. She kept shooting.
Hours later, barricaded inside, I watched her breastfeed our newborn child.
The undead loomed outside. Our supplies dwindled. Escape seemed impossible.
But for now, none of that mattered.
For now, we were still alive.
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