Free Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection by Steve Wands Page A

thought. There had to be hundreds, all of them shriveled like
raisins. Still they were able to stagger, still able to feast. I
wished them a Happy Thanksgiving as they passed through me. As they
stumbled off the bridge and down toward camp, I could hear shouts,
then a few shots but I knew firearms were few and ammunition was
sparse. The shots stopped and the shouts turned into panicked
screams. I walked over to the edge of the bridge and watched. They
were completely surrounded by the swarm of deaders. The fools were
so busy with feasting and clamoring about nonsense that they didn’t
hear their slow approach, and the smell of the fire must’ve covered
up their putrid scent, which I couldn’t smell. I was thankful for
that too, I guess.
    The feral girl ran for the river and dove—she
would most likely die of hypothermia. The others tried to fight,
but it was like fighting the tide. For every deader dispatched a
new one came to take its spot. They fought as they always had
though, and valiantly, but it was pointless. A few more chose the
river. I guess I would’ve chosen the river as well. I’d rather of
died a death with my lungs full of icy sludge than have my flesh
torn off in chunks by the rotted teeth of the deaders. The deaders
overpowered the rest of my group, dragging their dying bodies to
the ground. The tide came in. The tide always comes in. And there’s
not a damned thing in hell you can do about it. I watched the tide
go back out as quickly as it came in. The fire illuminated the
leftover chunks of cooling gore. The cold stiff dirt was left a
darker than rust shade of red. The folks I traveled with joined the
ranks of the dead. I walked on.
    The bridge was littered with the remains of
vehicles. The kinds people would’ve killed for, the public type
that people dreaded, and the kind that probably stalled out and
caused this mess. They were rusted and weathered, cold and dead,
and useless. Just like me. I wondered how long it would take for
the bridge to collapse without man there to keep it up. From the
looks of it, I didn’t think very long. The longer I walked, the
more I felt a part of this world. It was dead, I was dead. The only
things I saw were dead, in one way or another, and the people still
left were only biding time till they eventually died.
    After the bridge I entered the city. It was
once called Titan City, but I couldn’t find any sign that stated
such. I remember the day of the bombings—Titan City was among the
first to fall. It seemed like forever ago. I used to visit every
once and a while. Daytrips, a show, an anniversary dinner here and
there, and I remember when we took Marley to the museum for the
first time. He loved it. We all did. I wondered if it still stood?
I doubt it—many of the buildings were leveled, the ones still
standing looked as if a good gust of wind would knock them
over.
    The streets were covered in glass and metal
from the windows. I don’t think there was a high rise with a window
left intact anywhere throughout this city of the dead. It was a
hollowed out husk of a hornet on the windowsill of the world. And,
I was walking through it. The devastation was nothing short of
breathtaking. I tried to touch things, to run my fingers along the
old bones of the city, but I could feel nothing.
    I found what was left of the museum. A hole
in the ground—a hole filled with fancy things. Fancy things covered
by dust and debris. Things that had no place, things like me,
relics. I stood there for what seemed like days, though I know it
was only a moment. I waited to see my family, but they didn’t show
up. I walked on.
    The day never changed, night never came, and
the sky stayed the dullest shade of grey I had ever seen. The
clouds looked painted and hung heavy over me. I tired of the
wasteland. There was nothing to keep me here. I headed for a home I
had not been to since the dead began to rise. I wasn’t sure how to
get there, but I felt drawn, like something was