by J E Moore
into the crack. More 'Thumps,' several more demented killers had dropped into the elevator. Ironsmith stole a glance at the TV monitor - five were in the hallway. Any second now, their combined weight and strength would overpower him. They would force their way in! And then... He pressed against the door with all his might - his vision began to darken. Somehow, Warren saw or realized the hallway light switch was just below his TV monitor screen. He reached up with his good arm and flashed the lights on and off in desperation. The Zombies on the immediate other side of the door were momentarily distracted and eased up. With his last ounce of strength Ironsmith forced the door closed, crushing the one Zombie's finger to pulp, and spun the wheel to lock.
Sweat poured from his body, he dropped to his knees and panted as he rested his forehead on the cold metal. Ironsmith, next, scooted on his butt a few paces away, fell backwards and fainted from sheer exhaustion.
He awoke. Warren had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. An hour... two? Did it matter? He immediately checked the TV to discover there were dozens now clogging the corridor. They had calmed: some were sitting, some milled about - each waited patiently. A few looked at the monitor. Warren knew they couldn't see him, but the way they stared with such hatred, it seemed they could. He shuddered and mumbled, "That door can stop a rocket attack." He sat up and scanned the room. Of course, nothing had changed - the three Italian MREs lay where they had been discarded this morning. He knew with absolute certainty there wasn't any additional food in the pantry. "Three raunchy Italian meals... not much." His eyes kept returning to the monitor. A sharp pain in his groin, "What? Oh." He pulled the .45 from his waistband, bemoaning, "No spare ammo either..." He hoisted the heavy handgun to eye level, ejected the clip from the butt handle and inspected it. "No bullets except the last one loaded in the chamber?" he whispered.
The monitor: he saw the Zombies were settling in for a long siege. Warren recalled Duane saying, "They never leave food. Never." And Mike had agreed.
The door: "They can't get in... and I can't get out."
The monitor. "I'll turn off the lights... and they'll leave! No, wait; those two traitors said these creatures can see perfectly well in pitch-black darkness. I would be the one with the disadvantage."
The monitor, more Zombies cramming into the hallway.
The pain - one bullet - starvation.
One bullet.
"No!" he yelled. "Not yet. I'm not a quitter!"
He began evaluating his situation, his military training coming to the fore. "I have to regroup... plan. Suicide of course, is an option which denies the enemy his final victory but it's not my only choice at the present." Warren thought and thought, studied the monitor, assessed the Zombie's strength, his own resources and limitations. He searched the facility for materials to make weapons, sat down in the game room and developed his strategy. "This old soldier isn't beaten yet you abominations of human decency."
During the next two days Ironsmith rested, reset his shoulder, iced and taped his ankle, ate all three MREs followed each time by a swig of Pepto-Bismol, rearranged the furniture to re-enforce his line of defense and made two weapons. He had turned off the monitor; he didn't want to be distracted by whatever the enemy was doing - he needed total concentration.
The morning of the third day he awoke refreshed, mentally prepared and slightly hungry. He donned his old Army uniform, smoothed the wrinkles and noted his three stars still gleamed like new. He said to himself, "Time to rock and roll, as they say in the trenches." He flicked on the monitor; the Zombies were still present to no surprise. He viewed his broken, disease-ridden fellow Americans without compassion - they were no longer his countrymen, they were the despicable: the enemy. Ironsmith estimated they numbered about three dozen, hard to say exactly because of the way they were entangled and overlapping each other in the crowded corridor. It didn't matter. He noted with satisfaction two distinct large bloody patches on the floor and correctly assumed they had killed and eaten a couple of their own. "Good; two less to deal with. I'll bet they didn't draw straws for the sacrificial honor either." He made a shallow laugh and muttered, "If I had enough food stores they may have killed themselves off. Stupid bastards." He knew his glib rhetoric was mere nervous bravado. Make no mistake; Warren was afraid and not ashamed to admit it. This was war and the 'good guys,' meaning himself, sometimes get killed also. He had decided to use the Spartan defense: force the opponent into tight quarters and dispatch them one by one. Retreat to another position if it becomes compromised, until all the foe were vanquished. He had no choice - either fight now or die of slow starvation later. He stiffly reminded himself he lived as a warrior first and a politician second. The only glaring drawback to his battle plan was he didn't have a second defensive position to retreat to. His last option; hand to hand combat. For a brief moment he started to question that particular aspect in his chosen course of action then quickly forced the hesitation from his mind. He had crossed the point of no return! He seized the lock wheel with nervous fingers and with both eyes glued to the monitor he pulled the door ajar ever so slightly.
The stench seeped through the crack; it was near overwhelming. Making no sound, he opened the door about eighteen inches, that was as far as it could travel - Ironsmith had piled up every piece of furniture he could move to create a door block. Most of the Zombies were asleep and the few who were awake were inattentive. He knew that wouldn't last for long. They would attack en masse, but have to squeeze into the bottleneck he had made, and he would kill them one by one until none remained alive. The plan was simple, efficient and deadly.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and picked up his primary weapon, a full length pool cue with a razor sharp butcher knife duct-taped to the narrow end. His other makeshift weapon was a three foot long Billy club made from another sawed-off cue which he left lying on the floor within arm's reach. His pistol, still with only one bullet remaining in the chamber was stuffed in his front waistband.
Odors ebbed back and forth. The Zombies stirred, their nostrils flared at Ironsmith's scent - breakfast was served! They spied the cracked-open door and moved in slow motion toward it as if they couldn't believe their good fortune. Their tentativeness didn't last long. They transformed into a blood-lusting, frenzied mob faster than you could say, "Come get me." Four of them simultaneously slammed into the door, but it held fast. Warren stood poised with his spear on the other side. One slipped his head and shoulders into the crack - Ironsmith stabbed him in the throat, the blade went clean through his neck. The monster gurgled and dropped to the floor, dead. "One," counted Warren. Immediately a second and third squeezed in over the first body. He dispatched these also. Number four, five and six wriggled their way in and met similar fates. The opening was now clogged with the slain. The crowd in the hallway howled and pushed in vain which gave Ironsmith an opportunity to catch his breath - fighting took a lot of energy. Eventually, the Zombies realized they had to pull their dead to clear the doorway and then attacked again, three at a time. One tried to crawl in low on all fours, another pawed at chest high and the third tried to climb over the top of the other two. They had no fear of death.
Jab, jab... in the heart, in the mouth. The one above teetered atop the other two and draped itself half-way over the door! Thrust... Warren impaled him in the abdomen with his make-shift bayonet, wedging the knife point between two vertebrae in the attacker's backbone. Black fluid gushed out as the subhuman bellowed and seized Ironsmith's spear with both hands. The cue stick caught the door's top edge and snapped in two as the mortally wounded Zombie dropped to the pile below.
"Oh, no, my spear!" he cried. Holding the now near - useless weapon he shrilled, "Why didn't I make more of these?"
The enemy removed their dead a second time and continued their relentless assault. Warren drove the broken weapon's jagged wooden point deep into the first attacker's eye. He screamed and wrestled the weapon away as he fell back. Another crawled in on the floor, a third over top. He brained the one down low wi
th his war club and backed-up a few steps to get ready for the third one who had fell safely inside Ironsmith's refuge. This Zombie didn't pursue him; he stayed back as if he were unsure... or perhaps to guard the entrance? "Why would he do that? He couldn't still be any kind of intelligent," wondered Warren. Three more came through the opening, slipping and sliding in the pool of blood. Expecting to be charged at any second, Warren backed one step at a time, slowly across the room. The enemy kept coming until the hallway near emptied. They formed a half circle on the far side of the room. Growling, snarling, they still had no fear of their prey but merely stood their ground as if they were waiting or savoring the final moments before they tore him to shreds.
Ironsmith faced the murderous horde with the three foot war club in his right hand and the .45 pistol in his left. He was trembling, "What were these loathsome, mind-less creatures up to?"
The last Zombie crawled through, dragging his leg and took a position in front of the mangy group who then quieted down to issuing an occasional grumble. The creature stood slightly hunched over, similar to a great ape and appeared vaguely familiar. In a