Zomb-Pocalypse 5

by Megan Berry

  “You stupid bitch!” He screams at me in a rage, his entire focus now completely on me and the knife sticking out of his side. I can see the zombies still coming out of the trees, but he’s somehow forgotten about them. The guy takes one drunken step towards me before the first zombie breaks out of the trees and latches onto his shoulder.

  His screams make me go completely cold, but they excite the zombies. The other two catch up and swarm him, biting anywhere they can. The zombies seem distracted, so I risk running a little closer to grab the gun he dropped, and my axe.

  The guy is down on the ground now with the zombies on top of him like a pack of ravenous wolves. It’s been less than a minute, but already large strips of his flesh are missing, and his screams have thankfully stopped.

  Silas probably would’ve taken them all out, but I just don’t have the strength in me right now. All I really want to do is vomit. The fear of being attacked while I’m weak and hurling in the grass makes me swallow it down and keeps me on my feet. I turn and start running away from the gory scene and away from the cursed banks of this horrible river.

  Chapter Four

  I run until I can’t breathe, and my lungs burn, and even then, I keep going, right up until an oversized branch snaps back and smacks me square in the face.

  “Son-of-a…” I yell out before slapping a hand over my mouth to shut myself up. My restraint lasts about three seconds before I rip my hand away and gulp in huge mouthfuls of air. My face is stinging like crazy, especially my nose, and when I lift my hand to gently prod at it, my fingertips come away smeared with blood.

  This is exactly what I don’t need out here in the open surrounded by flesh eating monsters. I wipe my fingers on my jeans and use my sleeve to try and stem the flow of blood, hoping it isn’t broke. Even as my eyes water, I’m still quickly scanning the woods. I need to make sure that I’m not attracting every zombie within smelling distance of my blood—not that I’m even sure that’s how zombies find their prey—but the idea is terrifying.

  I fight the urge to feel sorry for myself and cry. I’m failing miserably without Silas and my dad here to save me. I’d even be happy to have Abby right about now, at least then I wouldn’t be alone. The bleeding eventually stops, though my nose is still sore to the touch. I force myself to keep walking in what I can only hope is the right direction. These woods can’t be more than a mile or two thick—at least that’s what I tell myself. I don’t run again though. The stitch in my side prevents it, even if I’d wanted to, which I don’t. It’s probably better to save my strength in case I really need to run.

  The image of the guy I just killed is burned into my mind and follows me through the trees like a ghost, haunting me as I go. I know that technically the zombies killed him, but I also know that it was the cut of my knife that condemned him to die. I’m almost relieved to have the distraction when a rotting corpse staggers out from between the trees right in front of me and lets out a demonic sounding growl. Thankfully it’s only the one, and I know I can deal with it.

  The training kicks in naturally, like second nature, and gives me a welcome reprieve from my own thoughts as I raise my axe and charge towards the zombie. I don’t want to give him enough time to come at me and build any momentum. Charging zombies are the most difficult to stop, especially if you are using a melee weapon instead of a gun. The axe slices down into the top of its head, the contact between blade and skull vibrating up my arm with force, and it stops the creature dead in its tracks. The zombie drops like a lead balloon, and I glance around to make sure the coast is clear before reaching down to retrieve my weapon.

  It comes away gummy with half-rotten brain matter dripping from the blade in clumps. I make a face as I wipe it off on the remains of the zombie’s red flannel shirt. The irony that this zombie happens to be dressed like a lumberjack, and I just killed it with an axe, is not lost on me. It’s one of those things that Silas would have laughed at, had he been here, and it makes me miss him even more.

  I’m not the best judge of distance, but after roughly another mile of hiking I’m out of the woods—literally, but not figuratively. I feel a mixture of warring emotions as I step out of the tree line and into the direct sunlight and squint. The woods started off as this terrifying thing for me, but now being out in the open has me feeling way too exposed. The woods, though scary, offered a lot more cover.

  I briefly consider going back into the trees, but I know there isn’t anything for me in there, other than the illusion of safety. I need to find a map, something to eat, and figure out some kind of rescue plan, so I force myself to continue. I cross the grassy ditch and climb up onto the road.

  I don’t have the river to guide me anymore, so I take an educated guess and start off in my chosen direction. The weather is cool, but the glare of the sun is bright as I trudge along the road. Nausea hits me as my stomach starts growling like crazy, and I have to take several deep breaths. I’m so hungry that I’m starting to feel sick. I actually begin to heave, but there’s nothing in my stomach to even throw up, so I keep walking, forcing one foot in front of the other.

  I finally come across a road sign that looks like some hillbilly peppered it with buck shot, and it brings back that sick feeling in my stomach as my eyes scan the words. Louisville 30 miles.

  I’m going in the right direction, but without a vehicle, thirty miles feels like it might as well be thirty thousand miles. I fight back the urge to cry again, and it makes me hate myself for being so weak. If Silas was here right now, he sure as hell wouldn’t be crying. He’d be telling me to get a grip.

  “Come on, Blondie,” I murmur sternly to myself as I adjust Silas’s backpack more securely onto my back. It’s been rubbing me uncomfortably since I put the damn thing on, and I regret my hasty decision not to just bring the pack that I was used to. Silas would have understood me leaving his bag behind—especially if it rubbed him as much as it’s rubbing me!

  I walk a few more miles without incident before I see it, looming up ahead. I blink several times to make sure I’m not imagining it, like a person in the desert that sees a mirage when their dehydrated brain starts to play tricks on them. I open my eyes and a smile breaks out on my lips.

  It really is a gas station, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I pick up my pace to a quick walk, but the anticipation is too much, and I break into a jog. I run until I get closer and catch my first view of the parking lot.

  Zombies.

  I count six of them, and I have to fight off my initial urge to turn and run away. I won’t normally confront the dead if I have a choice, but there might be supplies inside and I’m getting desperate. My finger twitches towards my gun, but I know I can’t risk making a bunch of noise and attracting any more attention.

  They haven’t noticed me yet, so I’m pretty sure I can use the element of surprise, at least against the first one or two. But then all hell is going to break loose and I’ll have a pack of hungry zombies after me.

  “Silas would do it,” I whisper angrily to myself as my feet seem to grow roots. My stomach growls again super loudly, like its agreeing, and I can’t believe the zombies don’t hear it. My fingers grip the axe that hasn’t left my hand since the crawl space this morning, and I finally gather up the courage to take my first step forward.

  That one step is all it takes to draw the attention of the closest zombie, and it lets out a hungry howl as it begins its unsteady shuffle towards me. I look behind it and see the others slowly starting to turn around at the noise. Well damn it, I’m in it now, I can’t help thinking as I jog forward to the meet the first zombie. It’s a female, a little bit shorter than myself, and she goes down pretty easily when the axe comes slicing down on the top of her head.

  My adrenaline is racing. I pull the axe from her crushed skull like a knife from warm butter and then turn, ready for the next monster. It’s still a couple feet away, so I rush forward and take the fight to it. I don’t have time to wait for them all to come at me, or I’ll eventually
be swarmed by more than I can handle.

  I rip the blade from its head just as the third zombie lumbers up behind me, the fourth one is not too far behind it. My arms are getting tired and this zombie is a lot bigger, so he takes three swings of my axe before he goes down.

  I’m breathing hard now. My heart feels like it’s going to explode from exertion and fear as I tug hard at the blade that’s lodged into my downed zombie’s skull. It doesn’t budge.

  “Come on!” I scream at my axe in frustration. But it doesn’t care that I need it for the next zombie, and I’m forced to leave it and dance out of the grasping claws of the next ugly contestant in the Eat Jane Competition. It snarls and hisses at me, and the sight of it turns my stomach to a liquified puddle of vomit just waiting to happen. It’s missing its nose like someone tried to take it out but couldn’t quite push the blade in deep enough, and so the entire middle of its face splits in half every time it growls at me. It’s a gory sight, its exposed skull winking at me with every movement of its snapping jaws. I reach for the knife at my hip, even as I keep moving, staying out of the zombie’s reach with a series of spastic movements that Silas would normally mock me for.

  This is going to suck. I don’t like using my knife on the zombies, especially not the huge ones with the long reach, and this one is definitely at least six feet tall. These are the ones I would usually leave for Silas.

  My Crocodile Dundee knife almost seems to shrink in my hand as the zombie lumbers closer, until I’m convinced that it will be no more effective against this monster than a dinky swiss army knife might be. It’s probably my own fault for getting so complacent. By carrying around the axe, I’ve gotten used to the relative safety its long handle provides. I tuck my knife back into my belt and start jogging off in the opposite direction. The zombies follow me, shuffling along like I’m the Pied Piper of disgustingness. When I think I’ve gotten far enough away, I turn and circle back, running as fast as I can.

  When I reach my axe, it’s still embedded in the stupid zombie’s head. My heart is pounding so hard that I’m scared I’m going to have a heart attack right here on the gravel, or at the very least another panic attack. I take a deep gasping breath and check over my shoulder. The zombies have turned back around and are shuffling towards me again, but I’ve bought myself a little time.

  I grab the axe and my hands slip off the glossy handle. I barely suppress the urge to scream as I hastily wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I try it again, and this time I have traction. I yank so hard, I’m surprised I don’t pull my arms out of their sockets, but I just deal with the pain and keep tugging until it comes free and I land backwards hard on my butt.

  My skin prickles at the unknown something that is probably getting ready to take a huge bite out of the back of my neck, and I practically ninja spring back up to my feet. Being an ex-cheerleader has not really had its advantages so far in this apocalypse, but I will give it props for my nimbleness in getting back on my feet. The zombies are still a little way off, so I guess I had a bit more time than I thought, but I’d rather not push it.

  I raise the axe over my head and let loose a savage war cry that probably sounds more like a cat getting its tail slammed in the door. I surge forward at the new pack leader, who is thankfully not the split-faced zombie from before. I swing my axe so hard the impact vibrates up my arm and I’m forced to let go as the zombie slumps to the ground.

  I grab for the axe as the other three flesh eaters stagger closer. Yes three, I apparently miscounted and there were seven zombies, not six. The fucking axe stays stuck, again! I let out a roar of frustration and give up all pretense of trying to silently kill the zombies, so I don’t attract attention. I’m failing out here, and keeping quiet really won’t matter to me, or anyone else, if they eat me. I pull my gun from my hip with a practiced ease that helps to reassure me that everything might actually be okay, and I plug the first zombie right in the middle of the forehead when he’s no more than three feet away from me.

  The sound of the gun, though muzzled, still sounds like an enormous crack of thunder that is an advertisement to anyone in the area that might want to come murder, maim, or cannibalize me, but the damage has already been done, so I raise the gun and fire off two more swift rounds. The second zombie goes down just as easily as the first, but the last one… The DAMNED split-faced zombie takes the slug in the shoulder and keeps on coming.

  “You have to be kidding me,” I mutter to myself as I raise my gun and fire again. The next round hits him in the neck. I watch as a hole opens up in his throat and black sludge starts to ooze down over his already grubby shirt collar. It might be an oxymoron, but this has to be the luckiest damn zombie I’ve ever seen. I raise my gun and empty the chamber into his face. Thankfully, he drops, and this time stays down.

  I get the heebie-jeebies looking down at him, half expecting the stupid thing to have some sort of magical power that will reincarnate it, even with the three rounds drilled into its face. But thankfully it doesn’t twitch, and I force myself to tear my attention away from its disgusting face.

  I keep my gun up and glance around the parking lot, looking for anything else that might pop up and try to eat me, but I’m completely alone. The afternoon gets a little bit darker as the sun sneaks behind a large bank of clouds, and I examine the carnage scattered all over the parking lot as I tuck my gun back into my holster. A total of seven bodies.

  I start to head towards the convenience store, but I stop after only taking three steps. These downed zombies might as well be a welcome mat for anyone wandering by. They are a sure indicator that someone killed all these zombies and is probably inside the store. I reach into Silas’s backpack and pull out a pair of thick gloves. I grimace as I grab the first zombie by the ankles and start dragging him off behind the gas station to hide the body—he feels like he weighs a ton.

  I’m sweating and weak by the time I have the last one by the ankles, the split faced zombie, of course. I’ve taken the hat off one of the other zombies and used it to cover his face. It’s pretty much burned into my retinas anyway, but it still makes me feel a tiny bit better.

  My legs tremble as I drop the two-faced zombie into the pile with the rest of the man eaters and resist the urge to kick him—I’d probably drop from exhaustion if I tried. I’ve already vowed that if I’m ever in this type of situation again, I’ll lure the zombies to the back while they still have the power to shuffle their own asses over. Work smarter, not harder, my dad always told me. I’m pretty sure, in his wildest imagination, he never thought I’d be applying his logic to the undead. But adapt or die, was another one of his favorite things to say—usually when I was complaining about a particular teacher or a test I’d bombed—but zombies… I shrug, even though I’m the only one around.

  The store looms ahead of me, like a mecca that I’ve finally reached after an eternity of travelling. I want to race inside and chug soda and eat candy bars until I collapse, but I have to be careful. I’m pretty sure nobody alive is in there, or else the zombies would have been beating down the doors, but I could be wrong. Or there could be more zombies—there always seems to be more zombies.

  I pull my gun from my hip again after tossing the gore encrusted gloves down on top of my zombie Jenga pile, and I creep around the front of the building, making sure I keep my back against the cold brick wall. I’m the only one around to watch my back, and it’s a depressing thought. Maybe I was spoiled, but I honestly never thought I would find myself alone in the middle of the apocalypse.

  I reach the front doors without incident and decide to take the cautious route as I reach up and knock on the door. The tone of my bare hand against the glass sounds loud to my ears, but hopefully it will bring whatever creatures are lurking around in there, front and center for inspection. Ryan always called this trick a zombie roll-call.

  I force myself to knock again and wait at least five minutes, but nothing shows up to scratch and moan against the glass, so I decide to Goldie Locks the hell o
ut of this place and let myself in. I test the door, and it’s surprisingly unlocked.

  A windchime rattles as the door swings open and the happy little melody about makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I grab for the chimes, rip them off the door, and carefully set them down on the floor—they might as well be a dinner bell!

  The door closes noiselessly behind me and I get my first real look at the place. Rows and rows of shelving, and all of it completely empty.

  I fight the urge to sink down to my knees and never get up again. All this effort and wasted energy for a veritable utopia of nothingness. Frustrated tears slip down my cheeks, and I don’t even have the energy to wipe them away. I finally allow myself to sink to my knees, right there in the middle of the cold floor. I don’t even bother moving away from the glass. In this particular moment, I don’t care about anything other than my own starvation. I hate being a quitter, but hunger and dehydration are the two hardest things I have ever had to face in my life, and that includes the zombies. It’s like my body is just giving up on me, and my mind is not far behind it. We were starting to go hungry even before Silas was taken, and if he was having trouble feeding us, what hope do I have? This entire area has been cleaned out by those jerks from Louisville. I don’t have the means to drive further away to scavenge, and I definitely don’t have the energy to walk. I rest my face against the ice-cold tile of the floor and allow my eyes to slowly drift shut.

  It feels good to rest, but something is nagging at my subconscious—something I saw. I force my eyes open and stare hard at the small patch of floor hidden underneath a shelf. I probably never would have seen it if I hadn’t gotten down on the floor. A small bit of energy enters my body at the possibility of food, and I get to my knees and crawl forward, ignoring the hardness of the floor against my knees. I reach the shelf and reach out with shaking fingers. I can’t even let myself breathe. If this turns out to be an empty wrapper, I really am going to give up.