When writing zombie fiction, the horror isn't necessarily the zombies. Can there be mercy in horror, or horror in mercy, without detailing every single blood drop and every single injury? Can even the simplest places become a place of horror without gore spread everywhere? Can being merciful to other people, to help someone keep their human dignity, be horror? I say yes.
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“Most of these people are.” I admitted as we entered the lobby. “Listen, I’m going up for some air, Sam. After that, I need… I need some time alone.” My voice choked on the last words, the images of Gabby, Candy, Holly, and Cathy walking toward the gurneys in complete ignorance of what was going to happen torturing me.

“I understand.” Sam told me, reaching out and squeezing my shoulder.

I left him there, and headed up the stairs. Each step, another death flashed before my eyes. Diane, there one second, gone the next. My brother’s empty staring eyes. One of those people tearing the baby out of the woman’s arms and burying his face in the blanket while blood sprayed outside of Steffy’s house.

I wanted to scream, but knew a single scream would bring soldiers at a run, and I was afraid if I started screaming I wouldn’t be able to stop. That I’d scream and scream and scream until there was nothing left of me but the screaming part. I gritted my teeth as I passed the fourth level and the infected inside banging on the welded shut stairwell door, hot tears running down my face.

I pushed out onto the roof, waved at the guys manning the machinegun that was pointing at the stairwell and elevator exits, and slowly walked over to an area that wasn’t covered by the landing pad lights or the lights on the rooftop.

The ledge was cold under my butt as I sat down, maneuvering the rifle I was carrying so it didn’t smack me in the back of the head. Less than a day in a uniform and I was already picking things like that up. If you weren’t careful the bottom of the rifle would hit whatever you sitting down on, and the barrel of the rifle would slide under your helmet brim and hit you in the head.

I buried my face in my hands as the last time I’d seen Steffy, my Steffy, my best friend, my confidant. Steffy who had loved me with all her heart despite the church we had grown up in telling her that those feelings she had were wrong, Steffy who understood I didn’t share those feelings she had for me, but still stayed my friend.

The blast of the shotgun, Steffy’s mother screaming because I’d killed Steffy’s father after he had risen. Steffy’s little brother thrown against the couch screaming as his face was shattered by the shotgun blast. Steffy’s left eye rolling up while the right remained fixed on me. A single bead of blood on her temple before a drop of pinkish/clear fluid rolled out of her ear. My Steffy, who had died at that exact second.

The tears were hot, and bitter, my eyes burned and so did my chest. The silver bracelet, the physical reminder of my vow of chastity before marriage, looked tarnished to my eyes, reflecting the corruption of my immortal soul. All the blood I had spilled, all the people I had killed to keep my friends alive.

No, that was a lie. All the people I had killed I killed to keep myself alive. If I saved other people while doing it, good. When we were in that whirling nightmare of death in front of the apartment building the National Guard had been pinned down in, my last worries were about everyone else, I was fighting just to keep myself alive.

Movement by the stairs interrupted my dark and self-loathing train of thought. I looked up, wiping off my face, and saw a bunch of people leaving the stairwell. I counted fourteen adults and one little girl. All of them were bandaged, and the man was holding the child in such a way that I knew she was asleep. Or in a coma.

Even from where I sat, I could see the pale waxy flesh, the prominent blue veins, the sunken eyes, and the massive infections around their bandages. They walked to the ledge slowly, mumbling amongst each other. I heard one man ask if this was the spot, and a man in doctor’s scrubs with bandaged hands and forearms told them it was.

One woman paused to vomit over the edge, and needed help getting back to her feet. She and a few others were weeping silently as they lined up in the dark. Some of them stood on the ledge, swaying gently, while others stood on the rooftop, all of them waiting.

The stairwell door opened, and I saw Matthews come out. He looked around slowly, then drew his pistol as he walked forward. He was screwing something onto the end, and the people standing on roof carefully stepped up to the ledge. When he was a few yards away from them, he bent down in the shadows, and when he stood up he was holding a pack of cigarettes in his hands.

He walked in front of them, and I simply stared. He holstered his pistol, opened the pack of cigarettes to pull free a lighter, then held the pack out, wordlessly, to a young man with a beard and dredlocks.

“Thanks.” The guy said, taking one. Matthews lit his cigarette, then walked down the line, offering cigarettes and a light to those who took one. When he reached the man holding the child he paused.

“Sedatives?” He asked softly. I didn’t hear what the man said in reply, as one of the helicopter radios chose that moment to chatter something full of static. Matthews tossed the pack over the edge and pulled another one from the pocket on his right shoulder. Most soldiers had Velcro on those pockets, his had buttons for some reason. He lit a cigarette, and put the lighter and the pack of cigarettes away as he walked up to the guy in the hemp shirt with a potleaf on it, dreds, and a beard. He was holding the hand of a woman on his left, and as Matthews walked up, he let go of the woman’s hand, clenching his fists at his sides.

“I’m afraid.” He admitted as Matthews drew the pistol slowly and made a show of checking to see if there was a round in the chamber.

“There is no shame.” Matthews said, leveling the pistol at the man’s face.

“Will I see her again?” He asked, closing his eyes. I could see the glitter of tears on his face, and the woman who he had been holding hands with turned away, her face shining in the light too.

“Yes.” Matthews said, and fired. The pistol made an odd wheeze and the man fell backwards, slumping slightly right before he toppled backwards and vanished. Matthews walked to the next person, a woman in a flower print dress and a set of pearls around her neck. She was rubbing a ring on her finger, and where her neck met her shoulder there was a bulky bandage.

“Is he waiting for me? Chuck, I mean, the one you just…” She choked, and I could see tears running down her face.

“Yes.” Matthews interrupted her, and shot her. No warning, nothing, just shot her, the little red dot appearing between her eyes. She fell backwards, the dress fluttering and one of her shoes falling off.

I put my fist in my mouth to muffle my sobs as my vision blurred from the tears.

“…Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and for ever.” A girl, fourteen at most, was saying. She was crying, but no trace of it was in her voice as she finished the Lord’s Prayer, her hands steepled in front of her, a silver bracelet on her left wrist glittering like white fire. I mouthed the words with her, my skin prickling as little Anna, who helped watch the babies during church services at the church I grew up in, gave herself to the mercy of the Lord and faced the merciless barrel of Sergeant Greg Matthews’ pistol.

“Amen.” Matthews said, and fired. I noticed a slight hesitation as the pistol lowered. I had started up slightly, but clapped a hand over my mouth before I screamed a denial of what Matthews had done. I slowly sat down as he moved to the next person, a man with his whole head bandaged so heavily only one eye peered out from a hole in the bandages.

“Are you ready?” Matthews asked. The man gave the thumbs up, and stood, unbowed, as the pistol was leveled to point at the single visible eye.

“Your mother loves you.” He said, and pulled the trigger. I could barely see, the tears were coming so thick. Matthews was blurry as he turned away from the falling body and walked to the next person in line, a man. Through the tears I saw he was holding a tiny baby that couldn’t have been more than a few days old.

“Two men surprised us in the park, they tore her out of her stroller, she woke up as they each pulled.” The man was sobbing, his hands making motions around the baby’s head. “Her arm came off at the elbow in a spray of blood, and the other man bit off her little hand. She’s still alive, but…”

“It’s OK, she knows her daddy loves her.” Matthews said. “ Pat her back and sing her a lullaby.” The man nodded jerkily, lifting the baby to his shoulder so his cheek rested against the baby’s head. “You aren’t bitten?”

“The back of my leg, under my pants.” The man told him.

“Lullaby, and goodnight..” Matthews started, raising the pistol.

“With roses bedight…” the man continued, stroking the back of the baby’s head and weeping.

“With lilies, o’rspread is baby’s wee bed.” They were singing together now, and Matthews took a step to the side, his pistol pointing at the back of the baby’s head at an angle.

“Lay thee down, now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed…” The man was singing softly, rocking the baby slightly side to side. Matthews pistol wheezed, and both fell, the baby held tightly in dead arms as both plummeted from sight.

I wanted to look away, I wanted to hide my eyes, cover my ears, but someone besides the heartless machine that paced to the next person should witness their death. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hurtle myself at Matthews, I wanted to shoot him, I wanted it to stop.

But I knew why it was being done, and couldn’t do more than pray silently and caress my silver promise bracelet that matched the one that had plummeted off the roof.

“Good evening, Staff Sergeant Matthews.” The next was a rail thin woman who was bald and had a bandage on her arm. She was dressed in a hospital gown.

“Evening, ma’am.” Matthews said, touching the end of the silencer to the brim of his helmet.

“Survived being shot down in the Gulf, survived cancer, got bit fighting one of those people in the maternity ward.” She said. She held out one hand to Matthews. “Take this, please.” Matthews held out his hand, and she dropped something into them.

“I’m ready.” She told Matthews, standing up with her hands at her side, her heels together, and her back straight. “Honor, Duty…”

“Courage.” He finished, shooting her in the forehead. She fell over backwards and vanished, and I saw Matthews’ shoulders slump slightly as he pushed whatever she had given him into his pocket. It was only for a second before he stepped in front of a woman dressed in a black burka.

The woman was praying in Arabic, and it surprised me to hear Matthews join her in the prayer. When she finished, Matthews said something that sounded like “Allah Akbar” before shooting her just above the eyeslit in her hood.

“Don’t cry for me, son, I’m already dead.” An elderly man told Matthews as the soldier walked to the next person. “My Gracie is waiting for me, my sons and daughters are waiting for me, and even the men I killed in the Great War are waiting for me.”

“Tell them hello for me.” Matthews said, raising the pistol.

“Hope to see you later than sooner, son. We’ll be waiting for you.” The old man said, and closed his eyes. Matthews fired, then stepped back, took a deep drag off of his cigarette.

“Are you all right, son?” A dark skinned man in jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt asked.

“Yeah, just had smoke in my eyes.” Matthews told him, walking up to stand in front of him.

“I wished I had children until a few days ago.” The man told Matthews. “Now I thank Vishnu I’m not standing here with my child.” He took a breath, and stared at the barrel of the pistol. “I believe I’ll ask Vishnu to let me go unreincarnated.”

“Good luck, give my regards to Vishnu.” Matthews said, and fired again. He took a step back, ejected the magazine from the pistol, put it in one pocket, then reloaded the pistol with a magazine he took from another pocket.

“I can’t do this, I’m not ready to…” A man in his mid-20’s said. He began to step off the ledge, and the pistol wheezed again. He collapsed and rolled off the ledge, and my gaze went from where he had been to the smoking barrel of Matthews pistol.

“There is no turning back.” Matthews told them, walking forward. “You all knew what was going to happen when you came out here. Feel free to scream, to pray, whatever you need.”

“Thinking back on our earlier discussion, I renounce my atheism. I accept God and his son Jesus Christ into my heart, and beg forgiveness for my sins.” The man in doctor’s scrubs said. “I am ready.” Matthews nodded, and shot him in the forehead, stepping to the next man, who was wringing his hands.

“This can’t be real.” He whined, and I could tell he was crying. My eyes were hot and dry, the tears I was shedding earlier gone, but the loathing for Matthews had curdled and changed to something else that was hot and bitter.

“Life is a dream.” Matthews told him, and shot. The man slithered off the ledge. The next person was the man with the little girl. As Matthews approached he lifted the child up, so their heads were next to one another, and he turned carefully on the ledge so he was standing sideways to Matthews.

“She was a good girl, she never caused trouble in school, this isn’t right.” The man said, and I could tell that he too had been weeping.

“No, it isn’t.” Matthews said, and fired. The bullet passed through both of their heads, and he was still clutching his daughter when he vanished from sight. The next person, a young woman who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me and wearing a Western Washington University T-shirt was lowering her hands after finishing a prayer.

“I’m dying alone on a rooftop…” She cried out as she reached out and grabbed Matthews wrist, pushing his arm away.

“I love you.” Matthews interrupted her. “You’re not alone, we’re here.” He told her, smiling, and she looked at him, her expression brightening.

“You are?” She asked, her eyes lit up and her face became happy.

“Yes. We are.” He told her softly. “Sergeant Jameson?” A single gunshot rang out from by the door, and my head jerked over to the source. One of the soldiers who had been guarding the roof accesses had a rifle tight to his shoulder. I looked back in time to see her vanish with the expression of joy still on her face. At the edge of my vision, I saw the soldier slowly lower his rifle.

The ledge was empty. He had shot them all, men, women, and children. Each one he had pulled the trigger on them and killed them in cold blood, even the girl Jameson had shot, Jameson had done it on Matthews’ orders, he was responsible for her death. I wanted to hate him, I wanted to curse him, he was a machine, not a man.

He sank to his knees, his pistol held tight in both hands, and he pressed the barrel against the front of his helmet, the lower part of the pistol against his face. His shoulders were shaking, and he leaned forward to let out a high pitched noise of pure, raw, pain. He rocked back and forth, only for a moment though, before he climbed to his feet. He moved like he was a thousand years old as he got up, and looked up in the sky. Without warning he screamed, a long, drawn out scream of primal pain that made goosebumps rise up on my skin. The men by the door had turned to watch, and one of them walked over to Matthews and folded the screaming man in his arms, their helmets clonking together.

“It’s all right, man, it’s all right.” I recognized the man as Sergeant Jameson, who had shot and killed the college student. Matthews suddenly pushed him away and moved to the edge of the roof. I thought for a second he was going to throw himself off the roof, but instead he collapsed at the edge and retched loudly.

He kept at it for a few minutes, and I watched Jameson light two cigarettes and wait silently. Eventually Matthews stood up, wiped off his mouth, and accepted the cigarette that Jameson offered him.

“Doesn’t get any easier.” Matthews said solemnly.

“Be glad it doesn’t.” Jameson told him. “Are you sure you want to keep doing it?”

“They ask for me. They come up here expecting me.”

“Rangers all the way, huh?” Jameson agreed softly. “Not something I’d want to do.”

“God, I need a drink.” Matthews groaned, “I wish it would rain, it would feel better if it was raining, it would fit, you know?”

The two soldiers kept talking as they walked toward the stairwell access. Before they could reach it, the door opened and people began to file out. More people.

“Sergeant Matthews?” A voice asked, and I felt like someone punched me in the stomach as I recognized the voice of the nurse who had told me about the roof. Jameson held out the pack of cigarettes, and Matthews took it wordlessly.

“I am, ma’am.” Matthews answered, turning away from Jameson.

“We’re ready.” She told him. I stood up and kept to the shadows as I walked to the stairwell. Sergeant Jameson and the other two men who were guarding the doors with rifles to back up the machinegun saw me, but Matthews didn’t. He was walking with the people who had just come up to the roof, walking them over to the ledge, and offering cigarettes to each person.

I couldn’t go through that again. It wasn’t fair. It was inhuman. It was cruel. It was monstrous.

How could they expect him to do that over and over and over?

My hatred was gone, I no longer hated him. I pitied him, and I suddenly hated the God of my childhood, a supposed kind and benevolent God who had given his only son to redeem mankind. If he was kind and benevolent, why was he letting the dead return to life, and why was he torturing Sergeant Matthews and the desperate people who came to him.

Behind me, as the door closed, I heard one last exchange.

“Tell me you love me, mister.”

“I love you, honey.”
From the Diaries of Becka

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Horror in mercy, mercy in horror.

Isn't that what dark fiction is about?