DEAD Snapshot Box Set, Vol. 1 [#1-#4]

by Brown, TW

  “Son of a—” George started to curse, but Cliff cut him off.

  “I didn’t get bit. I just got my wrist turned wrong when my poker got stuck in that damn zombie’s head.”

  Cliff still had the one section of broom handle and adjusted his attack to be sure to avoid repeating the same mistake again. He jabbed and poked his way across the open lobby of the pediatric area, doing everything in his power to avoid looking at the zombie children. He was doing fine until he had reached the nurse’s desk. That was when he literally tripped over a little girl that was hunched down almost on all fours. At first, he thought that he’d found perhaps the one sole surviving needle in this hellish haystack. Then his eyes saw the busted ribs jutting from the child’s torso and the nasty rip in her belly. That brought the rest of her into focus and he did not see how he had ever thought, even for a moment, that this child could have been alive. She was covered in drying blood and her eyes had the look he now associated with the giveaway sign of the undead—besides the fact that they walked around with life-ending injuries, that is.

  Then it struck him. This child did not attack. In fact, as he scooted away from her and tried to scramble to his feet, she simply remained hunched down. She watched him, her head twitching and cocking from one side to the other. Then she surprised him even more by scooting away from him.

  Getting to his feet, he took off at a jog towards the hall that would eventually lead to the exit. They took two turns as his eyes kept watch for the signs and arrows that pointed to the cafeteria. At last it came into view and his heart felt like it fell through the floor.

  The doors had been ripped off the hinges at some point. Inside, there were well over a hundred of the walking dead roaming about. Some were so badly damaged that they couldn’t walk as they were missing one or even both legs. That was of little comfort.

  “Son of a bitch!” George groaned again.

  The two men turned and only made it to the first corner before they skidded to a stop once more. All the zombies they hadn’t killed back in the lobby of the pediatric wing had fallen in behind them in pursuit. Also, it looked like they had picked up some company along the way. To Cliff’s dismay, it seemed there were now twice as many child zombies as there were adult.

  “Now what?” Cliff almost choked on a sob of frustration as he posed the rhetorical question.

  “The hall is too constricting. We have a better chance trying to get through the cafeteria,” George answered, not realizing that Cliff hadn’t actually expected a response to what seemed to him to be a hopeless situation.

  Cliff felt fear start to paralyze him, and he could not move as he stared at the approaching horde led by children including the little girl that he had tripped over. He wanted to run, but nothing his brain did could make his feet react. A sudden stinging pain to his cheek made him blink his eyes and shake his head clear.

  “Don’t you fucking quit on me, man!” George was in his face. “This was your plan, and we are going to get out of here, but you need to pull it together. Now c’mon.”

  George jerked his arm and they retraced their steps back towards the infested cafeteria. It actually looked worse the second time he saw it. Right in the doorway was a man who had been ripped in half by the looks of things. Actually, all that remained was his upper torso with the head and right arm still intact. There was an almost black trail streaming away from the abomination, and it ended at what remained of his lower half.

  One zombie still sat on the floor munching on what Cliff was going to assume had to be the left arm. It was paying them no attention whatsoever as they approached, but that lone zombie was the minority. Despite their having moved quietly, several heads turned their direction when they reached the mangled entry doors.

  “On three, we break left and right and run like mad,” George breathed. “Staying close won’t help us here. And maybe if we split up, it will confuse them or something.” The soldier laughed, but it sounded forced. “If one of us goes down, the other has to keep running. The first one out hops into the first military truck he sees and gets the engine running. Wait as long as is safe, and then haul ass if the other one doesn’t make it out.”

  “They leave the keys in the ignition on those things?” Cliff asked dubiously.

  “Actually, none of them require keys. The last thing you want to worry about if you need to roll out in a hurry is finding the keys. They have a master switch. So jump in and get the baby running if you get out first.”

  Cliff nodded and looked at the best possible path for him. He was on the left and that meant he had the checkout counter. If he could make it there, then maybe he could run along the back side of the food shelves.

  George patted him on the shoulder and then gave the countdown. Cliff took off at a fast jog. He did not feel safe going at an all-out sprint simply because the floor was a minefield of spilled food and pools of blood. If he slipped and fell, he might suffer more than just a sprained ankle or a bruised ego.

  He reached the cashier’s station and peeked behind it to make sure there wasn’t one of those things on the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief and then scooted along down the narrow alley between the food counter and a wall with a series of windows where food was often passed through to re-supply things as the day wore on.

  He could see the door and a new rush of adrenaline had him speed up a little bit more. He was a mere few steps away when he heard a yelp. He actually slammed into the door—he’d been moving too fast—but as he pushed it open, he glanced to his right. George was between a pair of tables and was kicking at something that apparently had him by the leg.

  “Run dammit!” the soldier hollered as he brought one foot up and stomped down hard on whatever had a grip on his leg.

  Cliff looked outside and saw even more of the undead wandering the open lot. Several of the tents had come down and many were stained with blood. Two of the vehicles were now smoldering hulks, and the entire area looked like some of the scenes he remembered from the evening news when some city or town in the Middle East had been the location for some horrible firefight.

  Unable to help himself as another scream came from the cafeteria, Cliff looked back. What he saw almost caused him to double over and be sick. One of the zombies had gotten behind George and bit down hard on the meaty part of where his shoulder connected to his neck. There was a spray of blood and he swore he could see the sinews of the man’s flesh stretch and then tear away. Another pair of the creatures had him by the arm on the same side and were biting and tugging. The limb tore free and the soldier screamed in a way that hurt Cliff’s heart it was so horrific.

  The soldier made eye contact with him and Cliff saw the man’s mouth move. “Run,” he gurgled just before blood dribbled from both corners and then flowed down his chin.

  Cliff backed out of the cafeteria and into the chilly open air of the evening. He had to shove away one of the closer zombies. This one had been a soldier. Cliff’s eyes lit on the man’s belt and saw another amazing looking knife. He would have preferred a gun, but it was likely that most of them had been dropped at some point. The problem being that that point was apparently not in this general vicinity. He took the zombie down in short order and jerked the knife free, not risking the time he would lose if he tried to remove the belt or the sheath

  He spotted the closest truck but had to avoid that one. A soldier that had turned into a zombie was sitting in the cab. He could probably yank it out and hop in, but there were three other trucks not too far away and they all looked empty.

  Taking off at a run, Cliff no longer felt the need to be cautious. The ground was relatively clear, and the blood stains on the asphalt were not likely to cause him to slip and fall. He ducked, dodged, and sidestepped every zombie along the way and finally reached the door of one of the large vehicles.

  Yanking it open, Cliff climbed into the driver’s seat and searched for the button to start the engine. He pulled the door shut as the powerful engine roared to life. Putting the
big vehicle into gear, he started across the parking lot towards the exit.

  He was veering around the zombies as much as possible, wincing when the bumper on one side or the other would clip one of the creatures that now all seemed to be converging on his location. He was just about to exit the lot and hang a right onto W G Acker Drive when a figure stumbled into the path of his truck.

  Instinctively, Cliff slammed on the brakes. Up until now, he had been able to dismiss the zombies as anything human—with the exception of his problem with the child versions. They were just anonymous monsters that he had to get past in order to get home to his wife and son. Yes, the child versions had been a problem, but he still felt he’d been able to see the creatures mostly for what they truly were; until now.

  Standing directly in front of him was the man who had been his partner in the field for the past four years. While there was an obvious transformation, and the face seemed to hang a bit slack on the skull, he still recognized Terry Gibbs.

  “Oh, Terry,” Cliff barely choked out his partner’s name.

  The man with whom he’d spent almost more time with than his own wife was standing there just staring at him with those horrible dead eyes. The bandages were now black and looked filthy. His mouth was a mask of darkness from where he had apparently attacked somebody.

  Cliff considered what to do. If the situation were reversed, he hoped that Terry would do him the kindness of putting him down for good. That was exactly what he had to do now. He had to put the man down. It would not be like he was killing his former partner despite how this felt.

  That was not Terry Gibbs any longer. That was a monster wearing a distorted version of Terry’s face. Cliff put the truck in park and glanced around to gauge how much time he had before things might get a little bit dicey. He decided that, if he hurried, he could do this one last thing for his former co-worker and friend.

  Opening the door, the first thing that hit Cliff was that smell. With the walking dead all around, it was permeating the air. He did not think he would ever be able to get that stench out of his nostrils.

  Gripping the knife he had just liberated, he approached the zombie that had handed him a cup of coffee this morning and complained that it was looking like it might be a long day. With each step, he felt his resolve waver. Yes, he needed to put his friend to rest; but was this still his friend in any way, shape, or form?

  “Stop trying to chicken out,” Cliff whispered to himself.

  Zombie Terry was now making its slow, awkward way towards him. Looking around the parking lot, he could see so many other dark shadows milling about. This was well beyond being out of control.

  It no longer mattered how this had happened. As far as he was concerned, it was now a point of simply accepting it and trying to survive.

  He took the last few steps towards his target and brought the knife up. He initially intended to just stick it into one of those milky, tracer-riddled eyes. His hand started to shake, and he had to swat away dead hands that reached for him. His resolve was about to fade when one of those cold hands brushed the back of his warm, live ones.

  That isn’t Terry, a voice screamed inside his head. Terry is dead, and that thing is an abomination to his memory.

  “Rest in peace, partner,” Cliff said with a sob as he gripped the zombie by the shoulder and then drove his blade into the temple.

  Terry fell to the ground, eyes still seeming to stare up at him. Cliff knelt and brushed a hand down the man’s face, closing those eyes forever.

  “I’m sorry I can’t take you back…give you a proper funeral. I don’t think anybody will be getting one of those for a long time.”

  Cliff turned and started back for the truck. He winced at the bits of gore and viscera that clung to or dripped from the front bumper. He stepped around the door that he’d intentionally left opened and started to climb up into the cab.

  Something clutched his ankle. To Cliff, it almost felt as if the world slowed down to slow-motion. One moment, he was climbing up, the next, he was tumbling backwards, his arms pin-wheeling for balance. He landed flat on his back with a painful expulsion of air. His head bounced back with an agonizing crack that caused his vision to blur.

  It took him a few seconds to get his bearings and realize that he was now sprawled on a parking lot with perhaps hundreds of the walking dead converging on him. He rolled over onto his side and saw the culprit; crawling from underneath the truck was one of those pathetic zombies that had lost its lower half.

  A hand was reaching desperately for his leg and grabbed him as he struggled to overcome the pain and disorientation of his fall. He had to get to his feet and get inside the truck. Moving was not coming as easily as it should and, while he had not had all the wind knocked from him, he was still hurting badly.

  Forcing himself up to a seated position, he was ready to stick his knife into the top of this zombie’s head. He looked at his hand with amazement. It was empty. The zombie brought its head down to his right leg, hiding its ghoulish face as it bit down on his ankle.

  Cliff tried to scream in pain but it was more of a weak mewling as he continued to struggle to suck oxygen into his lungs. He felt a white hot fire explode from that ankle as he watched the zombie’s head lift when it tore away a strip of flesh. He tried to kick free, but his effort was feeble and he only managed to shove the scrambling corpse back a mere few inches. It went in for another bite as Cliff tried to wriggle free and this time got a chunk of his calf as a reward. He was on his belly now, and starting to regain some of his sense and ability to move. He made it to his elbows and lunged forward, pulling free from the creeping death that craved another bite of his flesh.

  Trying to get to his feet, Cliff saw them converging from all over the parking lot, drawn perhaps by the sounds of his struggle, or maybe the smell of his blood. He had no idea which might be true, but he knew that if he didn’t get into the cab of the truck, he would be torn apart. His screams would be like those he’d heard when the hospital fell, when the soldier had been pulled down in the cafeteria.

  He managed to gain his footing, although he had to favor the injured right leg that dragged uselessly behind him now. He looked down at the half-corpse that was almost about to grab his foot once again. If it did, and it pulled him down, he knew that he would never make it back to his feet.

  He hopped sideways and then past the outstretched arms and was now on the step that allowed him to climb up into the truck. Using all his strength, he heaved himself up and in, slamming the door behind him as he did so. He glanced out at the approaching mob and saw that he had just made it as dead hands slapped against the driver’s side window.

  The faces that looked in at him were all slack and emotionless except for their hideous eyes which seemed to convey an evil menacing. Other than that, they could be wax figures for all the feeling they showed. There was no anger, pity, or remorse. They simply wanted to get to him and feed.

  He had to shift a bit to get his left foot to the accelerator since his right was practically useless. He put the truck into drive and started forward, dragging along the ones that had been able to get a handhold and shoving aside others. He finally broke free from the cluster that had managed to reach the truck and turned right, exiting the hospital and heading for Highway 178.

  He reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and his foot slipped off the gas pedal. The truck began to slow, but Cliff didn’t notice. The eyes staring back at him were his…but not. He could see the dark squiggles already appearing.

  “No,” he whimpered. But he knew better.

  He pushed on the accelerator again when he realized that the truck had come to a complete stop. The road ahead was dark with shadows and he turned on the headlights. He just needed to get home, but it wasn’t long before he knew that he would never make it. His vision was blurring and his body felt like it was on fire.

  He slowed and looked around realizing that he was the only person on the road. That seemed impossible, but looking ahe
ad and behind, he could see no signs of approaching headlights coming from either direction. Glancing down, he spied the communications radio and switched it on. There was a hiss of static and then nothing. He had to force himself to focus as he searched for the frequency that he knew emergency vehicles in Liberty used.

  “Hello?” he said as he keyed the mic.

  Once again there was a hiss of static, and then nothing. He tapped his forehead a few times to try and regain his focus and then tried again. The frustration grew as silence remained the only reply. A figure staggered across the highway at the edge of his headlights but did not seem interested in him and continued on.

  He knew he had only covered about five of the ten miles that would bring him into Liberty. Home. His head dropped and he forced his eyes back open. There was a foul taste in the back of his throat that was very similar to the stench he associated with the undead. It made him gag, but he swallowed hard and tried the radio once more.

  “Who is on this frequency?” a voice finally answered.

  “This is Clifton Martin. I’m a paramedic from Liberty just coming south on Highway 178 from Pickens Hospital. The military failed to secure the location. There were mass casualties. The hospital has fallen, and I doubt there are any survivors…that includes the emergency and military personnel that were on hand.” Cliff’s thumb slid off the key and he leaned back in the driver’s seat. A shiver rippled through his body and his teeth began to chatter.

  “Cliff? This is Ivan Potter.”

  Cliff recognized the voice now. Ivan Potter was one of the members of the Liberty Police Department. He was Chief Gilstrap’s right hand man and his scrawny stature had earned him the nickname “Barney Fife” when he put on his badge. Most people that knew Ivan also knew that appearance was where the similarities ended.