Author’s Note
When I began to write short stories after retiring in 2011, I made myself a promise: Nothing about vampires, werewolves, zombies. Then I got the idea that evolved into this after-the-apocalypse tale. Oh well. But the zombies are just bit players—monsters more terrible still await the End Times.
“Nemesis” is included in my first short story collection, A Cold Day in August: Thirteen Tales of Criminality Most Foul, which is available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback editions. If you read and enjoy this story, I hope you’ll share it with family and friends, and perhaps even go on to read the other tales that comprise A Cold Day in August.
Nemesis
A Short Story by Thomas Gregg
The zombie apocalypse. I’m living inside a cultural cliché. That was the thought that crossed Cullen’s mind as he wiped clean the blade of the knife he’d used to dispatch the shambler. It was an Air Force pilot’s survival knife that he’d looted from a military surplus store in the early days of the Pestilence.
There was a park bench behind him and he took a seat. A few yards away were the remains of the shambler. This one had been a woman and was relatively fresh. Briefly he wondered who and what she’d been before receiving the bite on her arm that ended her human life. She still had her purse, slung crosswise over the shoulder, and it surely contained a driver’s license. But there was no point in checking for it. The woman who’d borne the name on the license was gone, just as the world in which she’d lived before the Pestilence was gone. Cullen sheathed his knife and lit a cigarette.
“Those things’ll kill you, Sarge.” Travis sat down on the bench. “Got a spare one?”
“Sure, Skipper.” Cullen handed him a smoke. “Plenty more over there,” he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of a 7–11 across the street.
“We’ll load up before moving on,” Travis said.
“Okay, Skip.”
Travis was a former convict, in for armed robbery, who luckily for him been released from custody when things began to fall apart. He was a fiftysomething redneck: rangy, gray-haired, thin of face, with competent hands and a casual way with violence. Travis was a hard man but in the changed circumstances of the world that made him an effective leader.
They sat quietly for a time, smoking, and the others left them alone.
“So what are the orders, Skip?” Cullen asked eventually. “Are we moving on?”
“Maybe not.” Travis looked around. “Seems quiet enough here. We’ve seen, what, half a dozen shamblers today?”
“More or less.”
“Well.” Travis stretched his legs. “I could do with a few days off my feet, Sarge, so it’s just a question of finding someplace secure.”
“I’ll have a look around,” said Cullen, reaching for the M16 by his side.
It was a mild spring day and as he ambled along the main street of the deserted town Cullen enjoyed the touch of the sun, the taste of the air. Most of the buildings, he noted, had been broken into, but apparently there hadn’t been much time for looting before the first wave of shamblers staggered through. Aside from Ray’s Sporting Goods, which had been stripped almost bare, most of the stores still contained rich pickings: food, clothing, footwear and so forth. Here and there he came across a desiccated corpse. At this remove of time it was hard to tell whether the dead had been shamblers or human beings.
A scattering of bodies lay in an alley. One was a woman, clutching a hatchet. The other was a man with a .45 pistol, slide locked back, in his hand. Those two had their brains blown out: Cullen surmised that the guy had saved the last two rounds for his woman and himself. One at a time, the undead weren’t particularly dangerous. But if you let a bunch of them back you into a corner…
Beyond the business district there were houses. Cullen selected a two-story Cape Cod that stood on a fairly large lot, with good fields of vision all around. It would do, he judged. Harry and two or three others could clear the place.
“Sounds good,” Travis nodded when Cullen reported back. “Harry! Get your ass over here.”
Cullen stood by, saying nothing, while Travis gave the man his orders. He didn’t much like Harry, who’d been a lawyer before the Pestilence and was something of a blowhard. Worse, he tended to be careless. Briefly, Cullen entertained himself with the thought of Harry being lunched on by a shambler that he’d managed to overlook while clearing the house. It would be no great loss.
“All right,” Travis said as Harry and his detail strode off along Main Street. “What else, Sarge?”
Cullen, the reliable number two, pursed his lips. “Plenty of booty left in this town, Skip.”
“Weapons?”
“No, but other stuff.” Cullen explained what he’d found. “So today or tomorrow we need to organize a detail to go through all these stores. Load up. That way, if we have to unass the premises on short notice — ”
“Today,” said Travis. “You want to boss that detail?”
“Whatever you say, Skip.”
“Okay, then.” Travis yawned. “I’ll see to the lookouts.”
Cullen whistled up half a dozen people and gave them their instructions. “Roberto, you move the truck to the parking lot of the 7–11. We’ll start there. And remember: We got to clear each building. Don’t get lazy about that, you hear me?”
“We’ll be careful, Sarge.” That was Jodie, a good-looking redhead, edging forty. She gave Cullen a smile and hefted the shotgun she held.
“No shooting,” he said. “Not if you can help it. It’s noisy and besides, we need to conserve ammunition.”
He eyed Jodie speculatively as they turned and headed across the street to the 7–11. She belonged to Travis and the way she flirted made Cullen uncomfortable. Last month a guy named Steve had tried to put the moves on her. Travis smashed both of his knees with a ball-peen hammer and left him for the shamblers. Still, though, wouldn’t long-legged Jodie be one tasty treat…?
Time and patience, Cullen admonished himself. Everything comes to him who waits.
He’d teamed up with Travis in the early days of the Pestilence: the first member of what was to become the hard man’s group. Travis nodded when Cullen—Staff Sergeant John Cullen—explained that his MP company, a National Guard outfit, had dissolved when it became clear that the unfolding catastrophe was unstoppable.
“So you deserted?”
“It wasn’t like that.” Cullen grimaced. “We lost commo with higher headquarters, the supplies began to run out—fuck, it was obvious that everything was falling apart. People were worried sick about their families. The last word we got was a report on what happened in Washington. You know, to the President. So the commander just said fuck it and quit. At that point it was every troop for himself. Or herself.”
“I get that,” Travis said.
Ever since then Cullen had served as the hard man’s number two. It was he who’d begun to call Travis Skipper.
“I thought that was the Navy, Sarge.”
“Well, I could promote you to general, I guess.”
Travis had laughed.
And things worked out pretty well. At first, when the world ended, Cullen thought that he’d be fine on his own. But he soon found that the art of being Cullen was to be one of the gang. Most survivors felt the same: There was safety in numbers. The occasional loner, though, was regarded with suspicion. Loners tended to be…peculiar. In the aftermath of the Pestilence, some people had gotten funny ideas about God and the devil.
The area of south-central Indiana in which the group operated was around the city of Jasper. That place had burned but many of the surrounding small towns and farms had barely been touched. Cullen speculated to Travis that most of the population had been evacuated by the Army prior to a sweep for shamblers, a hunch confirmed by several survivors who joined the group. That was why the pickings were rich, and the undead few.
Eventually the group stabilized with about twenty members. People came and went — the latter mostly feet first, victims of their own stupidity or carelessness. Travis proved to be an accomplished politician, binding the group to his leadership with a combination of rough charm and stark fear. None of them were without some terrible story of the catastrophe that had befallen their families, neighborhoods, communities. There were three married couples. Two, fortunately for them as it turned out, were childless. The third couple had lost two daughters and a son, none older than fourteen. Such horrors still stood at everyone’s elbow, and so they clung to the security that the hard man’s leadership provided. In several cases, Cullen thought, that security was the only thing holding the madness at bay…
“Good day’s work,” Travis said, passing the bottle of whiskey to Cullen, who took a small knock. They were sitting on the front steps of the house Cullen had chosen, watching its shadow lengthen over the shaggy front yard. Inside, Jodie and two other women were putting supper together. Though nothing had ever been said about it, people understood that in the hard man’s group cooking was female work. One young woman, a graduate student in English before the world ended, had ventured to comment on this sexist division of labor. A look from Travis shut her mouth.
“So what are the orders, Skip?” It was Cullen’s mantra. “Do we stay or do we go?”
“Stay, I think.” Travis downed another shot of the whiskey. “This here’s a good location, Sarge. And even with the truck packed full there’s plenty of food on the shelves of the stores. The cabinets of the houses, too, I’m willing to bet.”
“Well…” said Cullen.
“Well what? Spit it out, Sarge.”
“I’m just thinking.” Cullen pursed his lips. “If we’re going to stay here, we need to take a look around, Skip. Say, a twenty-mile radius. Just to get the lay of the land.”
“Yeah,” Travis nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. If there’s a mob of shamblers someplace nearby, we want to know about it. Keep an eye on the bastards, in case they head our way.”
“Or another group of survivors,” Cullen added.
“That too.”
Travis thought for a bit. Then he said, “All right. Two-person teams. On bicycles, though. No vehicles. Engine noise can draw shamblers.”
“Works for me.”
“Three or four teams should do it. I’ll leave the details up to you.”
“Roger that, Skip,” said Cullen.
Next morning he marshaled his scouts — three men, two women including Jodie — in the 7–11 parking lot. Roberto, who’d been tasked to find bikes, had six ready.
“This is just a look-see,” Cullen explained. “In case we have neighbors. You run across any random shamblers — use your knives. Keep things nice and quiet.”
They all nodded.
“If you see a shambler mob — or another group of survivors — steer clear.”
“How about loners?” someone asked.
“Uh-uh.” Cullen shook his head. “We got no vacancies just now.”
They all knew what that meant. You either avoided loners or, if that wasn’t possible, you killed them. It was a tough old world at the end of the world.
“OK. We go out about twenty miles. Stop every couple of miles and have a good look around. Find a secure spot to bed down for the night. Head back tomorrow, same routine.” Cullen eyed them. “Any questions?
There were none. The scouts paired up. A married couple — Peter and Lydia — made one team. Harry and a black guy named Victor made another. Jodie smiled at Cullen. “Guess it’s you and me today, Sarge.”
“Looks that way,” said Cullen, smiling back.
The scout teams headed out on the three roads that radiated from the town. Cullen and Jodie pedaled northeast, past houses, then cornfields gone to seed and abandoned farm buildings. It was another mild spring day and the going was easy. Jodi was wearing a snug pink halter top and black shorts that showed off her long, well-toned legs. She looked tasty indeed, Cullen thought as they biked along side by side. And when she turned her head to favor him with one of those sly, suggestive smiles, he made up his mind. Jodie would be his first.
The sun was noontime high when they came across their first shambler, stumbling along the shoulder of Indiana 57. Jodie dispatched it with the stiletto she carried in a scabbard strapped to her thigh.
“Ugh,” she grunted, looking away. “No matter how many times I do that, I never get used to it.”
The thing had once been a cop, Cullen saw. Its weapon was gone but he salvaged two full mags of 9mm and a pair of handcuffs.
They remounted their bikes and pedaled half a mile before breaking for lunch. “A dead shambler don’t cross my eyes none,” he quipped to Jodie as they settled into the shade of a big maple tree. “But I got the feeling it might spoil your appetite, hon.”
She noted the hon and Cullen could tell that it pleased her.
Lunch was bottled water, canned baked beans, crackers and a couple of Milky Ways. They took their time over the food, having covered a good ten miles. Cullen opined that within four or five hours, they should start looking for a place to bed down for the night. Jodie nodded, giving him another one of those sly smiles. You like living dangerously, don’t you hon? he thought as he smiled back. That’s good. Because you are.
They dispatched three more shamblers along the way before stopping for the night at a gas station. The place had been systematically looted but the doors and windows were intact.
“This’ll do,” said Cullen, looking around. “You can have the back office, hon. I’ll crash out behind the counter.”
They cleared the building, then brought their bikes inside. The office had a back door and when Cullen opened it he found three long-dead bodies and a litter of 5.56mm brass among the trash bins.
They ate supper and sat chatting until it began to get dark. Jodie yawned. “Guess I’ll turn in,” she said.
“Yeah,” Cullen nodded. “Long day today, long one tomorrow.”
Jodie stood. She smiled down at Cullen, then turned and opened the office door. “Mmmm,” she muttered. “You know, John, there’s plenty of room in here for — ”
“Plenty of room for two,” Cullen said, smiling at Jodie. “You were right, hon. Very cozy.”
He lit a cigarette and smoked for a while, regarding her speculatively. Jodie looked back at him, wide-eyed.
“You’re trouble, hon.” Cullen’s smile widened. “Hell, I knew you were trouble from the second I laid eyes on you. And you like making trouble, don’t you? Uh-huh, you made some serious trouble for poor old Steve, didn’t you? Teased his cock and led him on until he put a move on you and wham! Travis turned him into shambler bait. Just like you knew he would.”
She shook her head. Cullen laughed.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, hon.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into her face. “It takes one to know one. Because I’m trouble too, you see. Big trouble. Huge fucking trouble, if you want to know the truth.”
Jodie made a sound behind the wad of cloth that filled her mouth.
Cullen laughed again.
“And you made one big fucking mistake when you tried to run the same play on me, hon. See, the thing is that I’ve had you on my to-do list ever since you fucked that poor bastard over. Since you showed me what you are. Which is a slut — a cock-teasing slut. And me? I’m the nemesis of cock-teasing sluts. Nemesis — there’s your vocabulary word for the day.”
Jodie shook her head. She rolled her shoulders.
“Handcuffs a bit too tight?” Cullen mashed out his cigarette. “Lucky break, finding them on that shambler you took care of. But then, I’m a lucky guy, hon. See, for most people the end of the world was a disaster. No more electricity or running water or satellite TV or smartphones or Internet — poof! All gone. But also, hon — get this, now — no cops, no prosecutors, no judges, no juries, no prisons. No CSI, hon—no nothing. And so when someone happens to disappear — some slutty redhead, let’s say — people just shrug and figure, well, the shamblers got her.”
Jodie writhed in her bonds, screaming behind the gag.
“I used strapping tape to back up the handcuffs, hon.” Cullen winked. “Trust me, that’s some tough stuff — reinforced with nylon filaments. Some prefer duct tape. But if you ask me, strapping tape just can’t be beat.”
She cried out something behind the gag that might have been Please — !
“You thought you knew me, hon, didn’t you?” Cullen reached inside his shirt, pulling out the dog tags that hung around his neck. “John Cullen. The good soldier. The loyal sergeant. The Skipper’s ever-reliable number two. That’s who you thought I was — you and all the rest of them, Travis included. Wouldn’t they be surprised to learn who and what I really am! Not that my name would mean anything to them. It really doesn’t mean anything to me, hon. Not anymore. Another great thing about the end of the world is that now I can put on a name—any name—the same way you put on that fuck-me halter top this morning.”
Jodie was crying now. It was, he thought, a beautiful sight.
“As a matter of fact, I killed Staff Sergeant John Cullen —well, I killed the shambler he’d become — and since he didn’t need his name anymore, why, I took it from him.” He rattled the dog tags. “But I think I’m done with him now. Done with Travis, done with the group. Time to move on. There’s other groups out there, and they could always use a good, reliable man.”
Now Jodie pitched a fit, writhing, shrieking behind the gag, red hair plastered to her sweaty face, eyes rolling in their sockets. He lit another cigarette and waited her out.
“There’s just one bit of unfinished business,” he whispered when exhaustion quietened her. “You. It’ll take three or four hours,” he went on, touching her nose with the point of his good old survival knife. “Time’s the key to it. Time and patience and care. I’m not some butcher, Jodie. I think of myself as an artist, really. And you…you will be my first post-Pestilence masterpiece…a slut no longer…but a glorious work of art…”
He continued speaking in that way, calmly, even gently, as he began on her. And there came a moment, sometime later, when he felt that, yes, she was coming to understand the beauty and the grace of his gift to her. All her sins would be bled out and forgiven, and the pain was a trivial thing, a small price to pay for this sacrament of salvation. And he felt, too, that she was grateful for his whispered promise to be merciful in the end, not leaving her to shamble back to some pathetic caricature of life…
When it was over he sat with Jodie until dawn, tears of gratitude and joy standing in his eyes, awed by the glory of her transformation. Then he gave her the final, merciful stroke to the forehead, using her own stiletto, keeping his word that she would not be abandoned to rise again.
He was tired after a sleepless night, but it was time to go. He left the office, closing the door on his masterpiece, packed up his gear and wheeled his bike outside.
John Cullen — if that was still his name — pedaled steadily northeast on Indiana 57 as the sun traversed a cloudless blue sky, stopping only when he happened upon a ruined barn in which it would be safe to sleep. Along the way he passed several shamblers, but he let them be. Such creatures were the business of others. He had his own work to do at the end of the world.