Sunrise Read online

  At that moment, he remembered he didn’t have the gun—Steve did.

  Great, he thought. Just fucking great.

  Turning, he ran down the aisle, not bothering to look back and see if the zombie gave chase. It obviously would—because like all predatory creatures, it would chase its prey to the death—but it wouldn’t run him down. An entire month of decay and exposure to the elements had ensured that most of them could no longer run, at least not in this lifetime.

  Rounding the corner, Dakota made for the entrance, all the while searching every aisle he could. At the front door, he stopped, looked toward the security lounge, then sighed. Steve stood behind the glass doors, rummaging through a desk.

  “Steve!” he hissed. “Steve!”

  “Dakota?” Steve called. “Why are you yelling?”

  “We gotta go. Now.”

  “Go? What?”

  “Zombies.”

  He didn’t need to explain further. Without another word, Steve grabbed the gun sitting on the corner of the desk and ran out of the office.

  It was their turn to play cat and mouse.

  They ran.

  Around street corners, between dead, idle cars, across wide stretches of road and through long, winding alleys, they stopped for nothing, not even when Steve’s pack dropped from his shoulder and spilled out nearly half its contents.

  “Come on!” Steve screamed, grabbing Dakota’s arm and dragging him along when he fell to gather the supplies. “We can’t stop!”

  “I know!”

  Something howled.

  The hairs on Dakota’s arms rose.

  No, there can’t be. The fast ones all rotted.

  They’d found a freshly-killed zombie. That could be the only explanation.

  “RUN!” Steve screamed, pushing Dakota ahead.

  “What are you doing?”

  A zombie burst into the open.

  It screamed.

  Steve shot. The bullet tore through the creature’s head and put it down for good. “We’re almost there,” he gasped, leading Dakota through the last stretch of the alley. “We just gotta turn up here and jump onto the fire escape.”

  “The fire escape?”

  “It’s the only way back into the apartment building unless we want to run up ten flights of stairs.”

  “That’d be safer than jumping onto the fire escape!”

  “Not with the zombies chasing us it won’t.”

  He’s crazy if he thinks we’re going to be able to jump that high.

  Regardless, they had to get back into the apartment building—now.

  When they rounded the final corner, the metal skeleton of the fire escape came into view, complete with its hanging ladder of a tongue and its twisted face of support beams and wire flooring.

  “It’s too high, Steve. We’re gonna have to go another way.”

  “No we’re not.”

  Dakota cried out as Steve ran forward, wrapped his arms around his waist and pushed him into the air. Unable to think, Dakota grabbed onto one of the cold, steel bars and began to pull himself up, only barely managing to force his upper half over the safety rod once he cleared the ladder.

  Just as he stood up, the zombies came around the corner. “STEVE!” he screamed.

  “HURRY DAKOTA! HURRY!”

  He threw his upper body over the railing and grabbed Steve’s hands, digging his fingers into his friend’s wrists so hard it hurt. The muscles in his back caught fire as Steve’s weight pulled his arms forward, creating a pressure so unimagined he didn’t think it was possible. His back felt like it would snap at any minute, while his neck and collarbone screamed to be set free of his ribcage.

  Steve was too heavy. He couldn’t maintain his weight.

  “Come on, Koda,” Steve said, despite the howling zombies just feet below him. “You can do this buddy.”

  “You’re too heavy, Steve.”

  “No I’m not. You can do this. Come on. Just believe you can.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Listen to me Dakota.” Steve’s wrists slipped. The older man dug his fingernails into Dakota’s arms, nearly drawing blood. “On the count of three, you’re going to lunge back and pull me up, all right?”

  “Steve—”

  “Just do it! On the count of three. One… two… thu-ree!”

  An opposing force tugged Steve back.

  Dakota’s chest slammed into the bar.

  A huge zombie, at least six-and-a-half feet, held Steve’s ankle in a death grip.

  “FUCKER!” Steve cried, lashing out with his other foot. “Let go of me!”

  “QUIT STRUGGLING STEVE!”

  “It’s got a hold of my fucking foot!”

  “Three, Steve! THREE!”

  “JUST DO IT!”

  Dakota threw himself back.

  Stars exploded over his vision.

  This just in: The president has declared a state of emergency in the United States of America just after the CDC issued this statement: ‘It is with our utmost concern that we alert everyone in the continental United States that the bodies of the dead are coming back to life. Our research has concluded that once a victim has been bitten, scratched, or has exchanged blood or saliva with an infected host, the immune system begins to fail. This process can take days, hours, or even minutes to occur. Once this happens, the victim clinically dies, then comes back to life within anywhere from one to five minutes later with an increasing sense of violence and rage. We suggest anyone who sees these infected victims to remain indoors and wait for help to arrive.’

  Help?

  Help?

  What help?

  Dakota…Dakota…wake up, Dakota! Wake up!

  “Wha-What?” he managed. “Stuh-Steve?”

  “It’s me, buddy.”

  “What happened?”

  “You pulled me up.”

  Eyes focusing, vision clearing, Dakota sighed as Steve came into view. “Thank God,” he said, somehow managing to push himself into a sitting position. He wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face in his neck.

  “Come on. We need to get inside.”

  “Just… give me a minute, Steve.”

  “Just one more minute.”

  Dakota closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Somehow, despite everything that had just happened, they’d managed to make it back alive.

  With a final laugh, he blacked out.

  “Dakota… Koda! Wake up!”

  “What?” he gasped, shooting upright. The back of his head throbbed like he’d just been hit with a hammer. “Fuck.”

  “You passed out,” Steve said, pressing a damp cloth to the back of Dakota’s head.

  “I’m fine,” he said, setting his head back on the cushion. “What about you? Did you get hurt?”

  Steve pulled up his pantleg. A four inch long gash traced the ball of his heel. “Don’t worry,” the older man laughed upon seeing Dakota’s look of concern. “We’d both be dead if I’d’ve been bit.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing I caught my leg on part of the fire escape.”

  “What could you have caught it on?”

  “Again, I don’t know.”

  “As long as you’re ok.”

  “It hurts like a mother.”

  Mother. He chuckled. That’s Steve.

  “What’s so funny?” Steve smirked, settling down at the end of the couch. “You think that’s funny?”

  “I think it’s funny how you say mother like that,” Dakota smiled. “Usually a mother’s a good thing. I’m not one to judge though.”

  “Oh fuck, Dakota. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”

  Closing his eyes, Dakota tried not to remember a night seven years ago, when he’d woken to find his mother asleep in bed and a note from his father pinned to the door. To this day, he still remembered what the note said.

  I love you, Tanner.

 
“I love you,” Dakota whispered.

  No father loved their son when they drove his mother to kill herself.

  “I was too young to remember anything about them,” Dakota said, opening his eyes when he felt the moment was right. “You couldn’t have done anything, Steve. You didn’t even know me then.”

  “I didn’t know you until you were eleven,” Steve nodded, looking down at the hands he’d set between his knees. “I still remember reading your name in the paper.”

  “I know.”

  “How come you don’t like people calling you Tanner?”

  “For the same reason that I don’t like thinking about my parents,” Dakota sighed. “It’s part of my past.”

  “That fuckin’ asshole. I swear, if I ever got a hold of your father, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  You’d kill him, Dakota thought. Rip him in half and cut him in two.

  His friend didn’t need to say anything to make that much clear. “Anyway,” Dakota sighed, wetting his lips. “I try not to think about it. Why should you?”

  “I just worry, you know? I’ve been your best friend since you were twelve.”

  “It’s not very often a seventeen-year-old is friends with someone who’s twelve, is it?”

  “Not really,” Steve said. Dakota chuckled. “You know I care about you, Kode. You really are my best friend.”

  “I know. You wouldn’t have run to the adoption center otherwise.”

  “It’s still hard to believe we used to live near each other. It couldn’t’ve been more convenient.”

  “No. It couldn’t have,” Dakota agreed. Pushing himself forward, he reached back, grabbed the damp rag that had been behind his head, then lifted it in front of his face. A faint trace of blood speckled its surface. “I was bleeding?”

  “Not bad, but enough for me to put a damp rag behind your head. Ice would’ve been better, but… well… you don’t need me to tell you we don’t have any.”

  “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “Don’t mention it. Hey, you’re the one who saved my ass from being zombie chow.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Through thick or thin!” Steve laughed.

  “And through death or undeath.”

  Sleep didn’t come easily that night, not even with Tylenol. Ringing, pounding, throbbing, banging—he couldn’t imagine where all the sounds were coming from. Like a marching band at a parade, a chorus of pain lit up the side of his head, keeping him awake throughout much of the evening. When he did manage to fall asleep, he woke up an hour or so later, to the sound of gunshots going off in the street.

  “What is it?” Dakota whispered.

  “The gang.”

  “What?”

  “There’s been a gang coming through here for the past few nights. I’m surprised you haven’t heard their jeep.”

  “They’ve got a jeep?”

  “And from the sound of it, guns.”

  Another shot rang out. A holler followed soon after.

  “We’re gonna be ok, right?”

  “Honestly, I don’t think we have anything to worry about, at least not until they come in here.”

  “Why would they come here though?”

  “For the same reason we’re here—shelter. We may be in a shitty little apartment, but at least we’re in this shitty little apartment. There’s not many people who can say they have what we’ve got.”

  If there’s anyone who can say that.

  Dakota kept his thought to himself.

  “You need something?” Steve asked, easing himself out of bed.

  “Like what?”

  “A blanket, another Tylenol—whatever.”

  “I don’t think I should take anymore. I’ve already had three.”

  “Another Tylenol isn’t going to kill you.”

  “I’d rather not risk it.”

  “Suit yourself. Call me if you need something.”

  As Steve made his way out into the kitchen, Dakota readjusted his position and closed his eyes, thinking about earlier and how easily one of them could’ve died. He could’ve dropped Steve, he could’ve hit his head harder than he did, the gun could’ve gone off and shot one of them. Anything could have happened.

  “Steve?” Dakota asked.

  “Yeah?” Steve replied, appearing alongside the bed.

  “Please don’t tell me we’re going back down there again.”

  “We’re not,” Steve said. “We’re going through the apartments next time we need something.”

  Dawn cast its shade through the red curtains and stained the interior of the apartment like blood freshly cast from an open wound. Cold, tired, and head still aching, Dakota stumbled out of bed and into the living room. He found Steve standing in the kitchen, counting cans of vegetables and bags of food.

  “Morning,” Steve said, smiling when he took note of Dakota’s disheveled appearance. “I’ve got good news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Even though we lost half of the water and a few cans of stuff, we’ve still got enough food to last us a week or two.”

  “Thank God.”

  “The only bad news is that almost all of the canned shit is tomato soup.”

  “That sucks,” Dakota grumbled, already bitter at the prospect of eating the same thing for the next two weeks.

  “Food’s food, whatever it is.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  Smiling, Steve reached over and tossed Dakota an open bottle of water. Dakota took a few sips before passing it back, then turned to look at the window. “It’d be nice if it rained more,” he said. “At least then we could collect our water.”

  “Only one problem, bud—stove doesn’t work. We can’t drink it if we can’t clean it.”

  “Couldn’t we start a fire? I know it doesn’t clean everything, but at least it wouldn’t be completely filthy.”

  “I’m afraid that the sprinkler system would go off,” Steve said. “That is, if it even works.”

  “What’d be so bad about the sprinklers going off?”

  “Alarms, Dakota.”

  “I thought they only went off on the main floor.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. Besides, even if they were only on the bottom floor, we can’t risk drawing zombies to the apartment.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Dakota sighed.

  He crossed the kitchen and made his way through the living room, where he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He reached for the medicine cabinet and started combing its shelves for Tylenol, all the while regretting his ignorant display of stupidity. His head throbbed so hard it felt like someone was slamming him into a wall.

  Or hitting me with an iron bar, he thought, then chuckled, swiping the bottle when he found it.

  He closed the medicine cabinet and was turning to leave when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He seemed to have changed so much in such a short amount of time. Cheeks thinner, hair longer and hanging in his eyes, grey eyes bloodshot and jaw lined with stubble—he’d never looked this way before, not even in the least. The woman who used to run the adoption center would’ve never allowed him to look like he did now.

  You’re setting a bad example, Dakota. You’re the oldest—you should be the one the boys look up to.

  “The one they look up to,” he mumbled, tightening his grip on the bottle of Tylenol. “The one they want to be like.”

  Unnerved beyond belief, he unscrewed the bottle, popped two pills in his mouth, then swallowed.

  He didn’t need water for them to go down.

  “Everything ok?” Steve asked.

  “Huh?” Dakota asked. “Yeah. Everything’s cool.”

  “You sure? You act like something’s wrong.”

  “Just thinking about my past,” he sighed, leaning back into the couch. The plush cushion wrapped around his shoulders and pressed into his arms, allowing him one brief moment where he thought he was being embraced
. The fantasy lasted only a moment, because when he realized they were not arms, but fabric, he leaned forward and set his hands between his knees.

  Unless you want to talk about this, you should probably buck up and stop acting the way you are.

  He’d never been good at hiding his emotions. After his mother committed suicide and his father ran off, he’d shut himself off from the world, hoping that someone or something would save him from the horrible agony of being alone. Mother Teresa was right when she said loneliness was the most terrible poverty. You could have all the money in the world and all the fame you could ever desire, but you would never be truly happy unless you had someone at your side.

  Looking up, he sought out Steve’s eyes, hoping to find the reassurance he was desperately searching for. However, when he looked at his friend’s face, he saw nothing but concern and hurt, worry for a friend he didn’t know how to help.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I worry about you, Koda. I’m surprised you’ve held up so well given all the shit that’s happened to you.”

  “Me?” Dakota laughed. “What about you? You’re in this mess too.”

  “At least I was lucky enough to grow up in a good home.”

  Dakota said nothing. Instead, he stood and made his way toward the window, where he fully intended on parting the curtains and looking at the outside world.

  Before he could get there, he stopped.

  The gangs.

  “Steve,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’ll we do if the gang gives us any trouble?”

  “What anyone would do,” Steve said. “Run.”

  A gunshot cracked the silence of midafternoon.

  Rising from their seats as though something might burst through their window at any moment, Dakota and Steve slowly made their way toward the window, careful not to make any sudden, rash movements for fear of being seen through the curtains. When Steve stepped forward and wrapped his fingers through the fabric, he gestured Dakota to the opposite wall, then gently drew the curtains aside.

  Outside, a pickup truck rolled down the road at a steady fifteen miles an hour. Two living men, armed with what appeared to be shotguns, stood in the bed of the truck, picking off zombies as the driver skirted the edge of the street.