The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. by V. M. Zito
Authors: V. M. Zito
Tags: FIC002000
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teeth broke deep into the skin’s hypodermis, the bottom layer where fat blood vessels crisscrossed the body and your red stuff really pumped… well, if that happened, you were fucked. Big-time.
Christ
–the thing was strong. Fingers like a handcuff.
Cold. Unbreakable.
Marco resisted, pulling back as if curling weights in the gym. The tendons in his neck bulged, and his bicep shook. With his free arm he grabbed hold of his elbow for extra leverage but, as he did, he felt himself slide farther out across the wall, his balance thrown even more out of whack. He arched his back desperately, keeping himself as high as he could, terrified the thing might jump and bite his face.
The muscle in his arm boiled. He fought back a growing panic, an excruciating need to release. If his strength gave out, his arm would be hamburger–and so he twisted his torso, trying to summon power from all points of his body and direct it to his wrist.
His arm dipped lower. Lower.
The corpse dug its heels into the desert, grunting like aboar. Brown spittle from the thing’s rotten mouth peppered Marco’s hand. Marco squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. He continued to slip forward, losing an inch at a time to the dead man pulling him.
Behind Marco the stop sign had pulled loose from the barricade–no good now, unable to moor him in place. The sign’s broad metal face clattered against the concrete, then cut into the bend of Marco’s knee as he teetered at the brink of the wall. Only his upper legs supported him. His waist, his chest, his face dangled out into nothing.
The congestion in his head drained to a spot behind his eyes, an intense pressure that dizzied him, almost emerged as vomit. Feverish sweat squeezed from his pores.
Fight this
, he thought. The fire in his arm, his spine, unbearable.
He was going down.
‘Fight this,’ he gasped.
He would die today, finally.
No. Not today.
He opened his eyes and stared at the corpse. It watched him in return, its pasty face too close to his own, close enough to touch if Marco unarched his back; the dead man’s right eye had burst from exertion, and blood oozed like tears down its cheek, along its broken nose, into the gaps between its jagged teeth.
For a moment Marco pitied it, even understood it–a creature fighting to survive, not really so different from himself. And then he aimed and swung his upper body down like a mallet, pounding his forehead square into the dead man’s skull.
A bright flash blinded him, sharp pain, but it cleared quickly and he saw the corpse sit hard on its ass, releasing his wrist, its mouth rounded into a shape of surprise. Marco’s chest whipped downwards, slamming the wall, knocking his breathaway. He hung there, suspended, his left leg caught around the stop sign that extended into the blue sky above him.
Shit.
He needed that sign.
He jerked his leg, hard as he could, wincing at the bite of metal into his skin. He heard the corpse grunt, and so he swung his arms blindly to ward off the attack he couldn’t see coming. And then the sign popped free from the wall and crashed atop him as he fell to the solid earth.
He scrambled to his feet and turned just as the corpse rushed him. He dodged and delivered a rough kick to the thing’s back, sending it face first to the ground again. Its half-arm flailed as it rolled, kicking up dirt and a bad, shitlike stench. Marco wheeled to find the stop sign.
There
–in a bed of brittlebrush. He bent and grasped the green metal pole with both hands. The corpse righted itself into a crouch, tensing, now up and staggering towards him.
Hurry
, Marco thought. He swung his shoulders and drove with his legs; the sign’s weight snapped his arms taut, popped his elbows as it grated forward, dragging on the ground.
He wrung himself in a frantic circle, gaining speed; the sign scrabbled along the rocky soil then lifted off into space–slicing sideways like the blade of a giant octagonal axe, sailing across a
Christ
–the thing was strong. Fingers like a handcuff.
Cold. Unbreakable.
Marco resisted, pulling back as if curling weights in the gym. The tendons in his neck bulged, and his bicep shook. With his free arm he grabbed hold of his elbow for extra leverage but, as he did, he felt himself slide farther out across the wall, his balance thrown even more out of whack. He arched his back desperately, keeping himself as high as he could, terrified the thing might jump and bite his face.
The muscle in his arm boiled. He fought back a growing panic, an excruciating need to release. If his strength gave out, his arm would be hamburger–and so he twisted his torso, trying to summon power from all points of his body and direct it to his wrist.
His arm dipped lower. Lower.
The corpse dug its heels into the desert, grunting like aboar. Brown spittle from the thing’s rotten mouth peppered Marco’s hand. Marco squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. He continued to slip forward, losing an inch at a time to the dead man pulling him.
Behind Marco the stop sign had pulled loose from the barricade–no good now, unable to moor him in place. The sign’s broad metal face clattered against the concrete, then cut into the bend of Marco’s knee as he teetered at the brink of the wall. Only his upper legs supported him. His waist, his chest, his face dangled out into nothing.
The congestion in his head drained to a spot behind his eyes, an intense pressure that dizzied him, almost emerged as vomit. Feverish sweat squeezed from his pores.
Fight this
, he thought. The fire in his arm, his spine, unbearable.
He was going down.
‘Fight this,’ he gasped.
He would die today, finally.
No. Not today.
He opened his eyes and stared at the corpse. It watched him in return, its pasty face too close to his own, close enough to touch if Marco unarched his back; the dead man’s right eye had burst from exertion, and blood oozed like tears down its cheek, along its broken nose, into the gaps between its jagged teeth.
For a moment Marco pitied it, even understood it–a creature fighting to survive, not really so different from himself. And then he aimed and swung his upper body down like a mallet, pounding his forehead square into the dead man’s skull.
A bright flash blinded him, sharp pain, but it cleared quickly and he saw the corpse sit hard on its ass, releasing his wrist, its mouth rounded into a shape of surprise. Marco’s chest whipped downwards, slamming the wall, knocking his breathaway. He hung there, suspended, his left leg caught around the stop sign that extended into the blue sky above him.
Shit.
He needed that sign.
He jerked his leg, hard as he could, wincing at the bite of metal into his skin. He heard the corpse grunt, and so he swung his arms blindly to ward off the attack he couldn’t see coming. And then the sign popped free from the wall and crashed atop him as he fell to the solid earth.
He scrambled to his feet and turned just as the corpse rushed him. He dodged and delivered a rough kick to the thing’s back, sending it face first to the ground again. Its half-arm flailed as it rolled, kicking up dirt and a bad, shitlike stench. Marco wheeled to find the stop sign.
There
–in a bed of brittlebrush. He bent and grasped the green metal pole with both hands. The corpse righted itself into a crouch, tensing, now up and staggering towards him.
Hurry
, Marco thought. He swung his shoulders and drove with his legs; the sign’s weight snapped his arms taut, popped his elbows as it grated forward, dragging on the ground.
He wrung himself in a frantic circle, gaining speed; the sign scrabbled along the rocky soil then lifted off into space–slicing sideways like the blade of a giant octagonal axe, sailing across a
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