The first few rows of The Horde see his fierce movement and begin running. The wave of voracious grunts spreads. He turns the bike around just as a small girl leaps at him. He nearly crashes, trying instinctively to avoid running her over. He recovers and hacks her in two. Just as the first wave is nearly atop him, he races down the sidewalk.
He hits the throttle and guns down half a block to keep some distance but to keep drawing them away from his home. The Horde continues after him unabated, unperturbed by his repeated getaway routine. They keep coming and he keeps luring them.
Around him on occasion are the screams of others who must hide as The Horde washes over them. Dad is unaware of the many he has brought this sudden overwhelming nightmare to. He is too frantic trying to lead them away from his own. He is also unaware of the few shots taken at him, from distant people, realizing that he is drawing The Horde toward them. He can not even hear the gunfire as he races along. The survivors have lost their calm to aim correctly as The Horde floods their neighborhood. And due to their own fear, screaming and fleeing, The Horde spots them. They, their family members, and neighbors are wiped out.
Dad continues southward through smaller streets towards Wilshire Boulevard. The area is large and open and plenty of room for The Horde to reside. Dad pushes out onto the wide street of Wilshire Boulevard. It is even more exotic than he expected. Trucks and cars are oddly stacked upon each other. There are eaten bodies everywhere. A crowd of police cars and fire trucks circle the area. It is an odd mix of multi-layered hell. There are business buildings, banks barricaded and signs hanging out of windows: “We are Alive”...“Not infected”...
He doesn't notice as people in their business attire come to the windows waving at him.
Dad rides through, at a pace, in and out of the maze. Zombies are scattered everywhere. Some leap at him from second story buildings and out of crushed cars. He bashes with skill, hacks with temerity, and in the impatience of monotony attempts to ride over one. It doesn't work as well as his angered mind thought it would. He nearly crashes as he wobbles through cars. He slams against the sides of cars smashing off side view mirrors, but in armor it isn't a big deal. He recovers, chuckles slightly insane, and rides on.
The Horde is behind him somewhere. He has come far enough. He has drawn The Horde away from his family. But in that relief, he sees The Horde smash through a bank's windows as people inside flee to feeble office doors and cubicles. A banner fluttering above has spray painted, “We're Alive, Help” on it. It gets caught in The Horde's deluge and ripped down. He finally realizes that saving his own family has caused others to perish from The Horde.
“Forgive me God, for I know now what I do,” he moans. He realizes he has caused their death. So many... of them. He can't even hear their screams above the banshee wail of The Horde. He grits his teeth.
He knows the area. He bought guns near here: shotguns and the 22 rifle for his daughter. He races on to get clear of the zombies, The Horde. He circles as they spread in the vast open spaces of Wilshire Boulevard. He races down side streets. He clears The Horde, this time by racing far past it through neighborhood streets. He turns into an alley near the sports store. A small group of 'local' zombies is chasing after him. He stops, gets off the bike, pulls out his swords and waits for them. He shakes his legs, stretches his back. He feels pretty good.
He stands tall, sword ready. His helm is angled down. He looks through the holes waiting as they come. He listens to his breathing. It is calm. They do not know, do not think. They merely come. The faster ones get there first. Their hands fly off as they slam into a wall of steel. Half a head twirls into the air. Another smashes right into the oncoming elbow of steel and brawn. It gives away bursting like a bottle of red wine on concrete.
Another leaps up, only to split into a flailing upper body and a plopping pair of legs. Another drives straight into a blade, through the mouth. Another is bashed so hard it flies folded into the window of a nearby car, stuck for good. Its bark is now a whimper. Then the slow ones come forth and heads split, arms flop, spines crackle, and bodies explode. Dad is comfortable in his own steel skin. He delivers death to the undead, efficiently, quickly, brutally.
There are only a few crawlers, blocks away. He stands still, calm, amid the path of carnage. The hum of The Horde is far off. The slow zombies do not sense him anymore. They hobble to the recently ended fight. They begin to meander. He slowly walks back and gets on his bike. He watches an ambulance driver crawl with one arm and mangled legs. It's the closest but doesn't acknowledge him as human prey. Is it his armor that conceals him? His slow movement? He gets impatient and starts the bike. He drives to the sports store. The crawler hisses at him as he leaves quickly.
The parking lot is a small V-shaped space squished in a three way intersection. It is at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard, Sawtelle Avenue, and a side street. Two cars have already crashed into the lot. They drove in desperately, parking on the sidewalk. When the zombies infestation began on the first day, it was in the morning before this store opened. So the store was locked up and the lot empty. The front of the store has a wall to wall gate, but it has been pried open. The store may have been looted. He may be too late.
12. Stock
The security gate is pried open and the glass door broken. There is blood on the glass. He enters into the dimly lit store. The shelves and stock seem normal. He looks around. It is dusty and quiet. He walks to the right, to the gun sales. There he sees the zombies, a dozen of them milling about. There are lots of chewed human remains scattered across the floor. The fight took place here. Whomever came in and went for the guns, didn't make it.
One stands up and barks. The rest turn to see Dad. They attack him. He backs away, swords ready. The clothing displays and shelves cramp his swings. Zombies crash through it all. Water bottles, sports wear and plastic packages go flying as they leap at him. The shelves and display stands collapse in a flurry of thin metal twangs and screeching hangar zips.
In a cramped space with inventory and zombies bouncing into him, he uses the sword as a shield and the shorter gladius to pierce into their heads. He punctures straight through two of them. Two zombies impale themselves through his extended sword. Dad yanks the blade. They trip and fall over their own. Dad quickly jabs down at the fallen.
Another shelf explodes as a zombie comes around to his right. He bashes his steel elbow at dangling fleece tops and baseball caps. The zombie crumbles under the fierce blow. As it totters, he quickly cuts its head clean off. A dozen or so dead zombies later, he is perusing the guns.
He notices that many ammo boxes are toppled, as if someone made it to here, but that was it. Blood stains are on shelves and carpet.
He gets backpacks and begins to load up with ammo. The 22 bullets are definitely convenient, 500 rounds in small boxes. There are just a few boxes of shotgun slugs and buckshot. The rest is useless bird shot. With a few boxes of 22, he is in the thousands of shots. With the few boxes of 12 and 20 gauge, he has a hundred shells. He also has a .45 handgun he hasn't used. There are several boxes of those bullets in the 50 round variety. He figures he might as well take them too. However, the ammo is heavy. He can only take so much.
He ponders taking more rifles. How will they fit as he rides the bike back home? Or should he walk? No way. He takes a 22 and an AR-15. The AR-15 is similar to the 22 rifle but uses the larger caliber 5.56x45mm NATO or similar .223 bullet. He picks up a bunch of 5.56 ammo too. It is getting heavy.
He ties the guns to the backpack. On the floor, he notices pads for soccer and hockey, and other odd sports. He stuffs a second larger sports bag full of shin pads, elbow pads, whatever pads. Many are soft but should still help. The thick nylon would minimize teeth penetration. He sees some Off spray for mosquitoes. He forgot about the scent. How could he? He sprays himself then stuffs some cans in the bag of pads.
The ammo pack with the guns is heavy. He barely gets it out the door. He drops it there. He'll have to come back for it. H
e takes the lighter stuff to the bike first. He walks over calmly and bungee cords the sportsbag with pads to the back of the bike.
A zombie is nearby. It hasn't detected him yet. He sniffs himself. He reeks of Off. He wonders. He walks slowly over to the zombie with no hectic movement. It turns to face him, but is slow and unconvincing. He waits for it to get close. It moans. He does a quick twirl of his wrist, as the blade navigates a full circle to come down on the zombie's cranium. Dad puts a bit of torque into it with a body turn and it sinks deep. Dead.
His face is covered. His body is covered. He is scented and doesn't move too fast. It could be a chance, but for what he is not sure. Once the first swing of the sword is made, others will come running.
He gets back to his bike, starts it and drives closer to the store. He picks up the ammo pack with guns tied on and plops it on the back. The straps are strained by the dense weight. He carefully ties it down. Finally, he drives out, slowly, taking a wide birth away from The Horde, back up towards the Hollywood area.
He bypasses the major roads that are jammed, meandering through neighborhoods and apartment streets. These are sporadically cluttered. Their sidewalks are generally open. The residential streets are lined on both sides with parked cars, a typical busy city with old apartments and little parking. During the jammed exodus, most cars could not move and thus blocked any others from attempting to drive down these streets or onto the sidewalks. A few cars crashed through but got stuck soon enough. Some driveways have cars blocking sidewalks, but the driveways are open, giving him room to drive around. He goes at a nominal pace just to keep the engine purring and avoids revving. His fuel is still good. He ponders but realizes getting gas siphoned from a million jammed cars is unlikely a problem.
Suddenly, he notices out of the corner of his helm that a few fast zombies are chasing him. He waits for them. He braces as they leap and smack up against his wall of steel supported by muscle. They tumble backwards. He quickly hacks deep into their neck or skull.
He slaloms through the cars, sensing The Horde moving further away. He thinks he hears the birds chirping and the bees buzzing. He continues his good even pace back home. As he gets closer, his thoughts of wife and children return. He prays more and more intently as he nears Sunset. What has happened? He can not think about it so he prays to God about life, about what he has done, about forgiveness, and about hope.
He drives in the rich neighborhood near his house. He passes up Sunset Boulevard with little mishap. The straggling zombies there are slow to recognize a steal shape on a purring motorcycle. As they turn toward him, he is upon them. The blade goes into gaping mouth and shuts the alarm immediately. Or he holds his blade out, driving next to them, lopping their heads off as they gaze at him.
He parks the bike at the home behind his, shaking with anticipation to see his family. He lumbers with the ammo bag down the side of that house into its backyard. It is filled with the rotting corpses he threw over. He ignores the festering foul mounds. He tosses the first sports bag over, rolls the ammo bag over, and clambers over the wall.
Would his family still be alive? Did the Horde swallow them up as he fled? Oh dear God, please.
His wife and daughters are at the picnic table eating the last of the barbecue and some cake.
“Dad! We got a cake!”
13. Family
“Shhh, Charlotte, it's supposed to be a surprise. Stop yelling!”
Dad is befuddled, but remains vigilant. First, he rushes to the driveway clanking in his armor. Did Charlotte alert The Horde? Dad eluded them far away in midtown. He sees a driveway full of bloody stains. He thought he killed a bunch of zombies there before he fled from the house and The Horde. The massive rush of zombies must have cleared it all he surmises.
He steps back to their little picnic. “What are you doing?”
His wife is eating a pork rib. She generally does not eat meat. But with the world turned upside down, things change.
“We prayed for you, then realized the grilled meat won't last long,” she smiles with the first barbecue sauce he has ever seen on her face.
“Mom made us clean up after you,” Lena says. She picks at her last bits of meat on a bone and then tosses it to Rondo. He has a small pile of bones.
The wife was not having dead zombie parts in their yard or driveway. They had busied themselves earlier with the dead in the driveway. Lena, having watched her Dad do it, wore the plastic leg armor and used the kitchen cleaver to hack away at zombie parts. Charlotte and mom wore garden gloves, dirty dust masks and scarves.
“We cut up all the zombies, even the moving ones. Then we tossed them.”
“I tossed them! You just kicked them with your feet. It took FOREVER,” Lena says annoyed.
“Well, it worked. We threw them in the other yard and down the street.”
Dad stands confused in full armor, eyes blinking inside his helm.
“Dad, is that what I think it is?” Charlotte hustles over to the bags left in the back and caresses the semi-automatic 22 and AR-15 rifles.
“Yes, and ammo, ammo, ammo.” Dad grabs the ammo backpack and drags it closer. He takes his helm off and walks up to the cake. A cake?
“We found it.” His wife smiles up at his mental question.
“Found it?” He looks at her with concern.
“Yeah, on the street,” Lena says, smacking her barbecue lips.
“After you left, after all those zombies,” the wife says.
“Oh my gosh, there were a lot of zombies. Did you see them?” Lena says, eyeing the cake, her hand caressing the package.
His wife puts her hand on Lena's to stop her obsessing over it. “We waited. It took forever for them to pass. It sounded like a thunderstorm, a constant thunder.”
“Like waves of the ocean, with cars moving too,” Lena adds.
Charlotte unties the rifles. “Booh yah!” She poses with them, curling her little girl lip. Dad glares at her.
“Shhhhhh,” Mom and Lena grit.
Charlotte once again covers her mouth. Her smile dwindles as her eyes show she is scared, seeing the anger of her father's visage. He, once again, in clanking armor, walks over to the driveway and looks down it. Nothing. He walks back and looks at Charlotte again. Everyone is silent.
Lena breaks the silence, “Charlotte, you have to stop yelling. No more yelling. You must whisper for everything, even when you yell. You have to forget about talking loud, ever.”
Charlotte nods.
Her mother motions for her to sit down. Charlotte, in acting form, holds back a cry and shows it, to inform her Dad she is sorry, to deflect and lesson his anger. Mom hugs her daughter. Dad grabs the last piece of pork rib and eats it. After one pull by his mouth, he tosses the bone to Rondo.
“How did you guys get a cake? What the hell were you doing going out? That Horde could easily take down this house. They push over and topple buildings. You can't let The Horde see you, not even a part of you, ever. If they do, it's over.”
“Okay honey, we know. We waited a long time. They just went by like the L.A. Marathon. We sensed they were gone and we still waited. Then we heard a few, so Charlotte and Lena crawled to the roof. They used the 22 and took out the zombies down our driveway.”
“The ones you left behind alive. The ones you cut up, that didn't get flattened by the Horde,” Lena says.
“And we were very careful. We used the attic opening at the front, and we fired on zombies on the street, to clear them.”
“Yeah Dad, I don't think they really know how to pinpoint gunfire or something. They come close but then they just circle around. We shot them in the head and Charlotte got good at it too.”
Charlotte gives a thumbs up still hugging mom.
“We kept shooting and it would take like only one lil 22 bullet in the head. And The Horde totally moved the cars out of the way, so there's like a clearing in the road. But guess what Dad? A car had grocery bags in it. We could see it from the roof, right there. And it had
all the bad stuff!”
“We got Doritos, Dad,” Charlotte whispers.
“Good job on the whisper Charlotte,” Lena says.
“Oreos,” Charlotte whispers.
“It's the end of the world, right honey? Might as well,” his wife says with a strange glazed look, smiling with an undertone of hysterics. Given the circumstances, Dad felt it proper.
“So you went out on the street?”
“We didn't know when you'd get back. Or if you'd make it,” Lena says. She looks away as she rubs something in her eye.
“Can we have some cake?” Charlotte asks quietly.
“What happened? Who went out?” Dad says, a bit miffed, taking off his armor pieces.
“I did,” Lena says. She points to the plastic armor and 20 gauge shotgun.
“Lena, what if you got surrounded? You don't know how to fight,” Dad says with a huff.
“Then teach me,” Lena says, opening the crinkled plastic packaging of the cake. It sounds really loud so they freeze for a moment. She continues to open it, but with each plink of sound as the plastic unclasps causes them to shudder and then chuckle.
“Just one piece,” the wife whispers. Lena scoops some frosting with a dirty finger.
Dad realizes that he must train her. She is strong enough as a teen. Lena has the strength and legs of a stalwart athlete. With the right movements and understanding of blade, she could help protect her mother and little sister.
Her mother however could not do it. Mom exercises regularly, but is too petite. She does not have the fighting prowess of a warrior physique. But Lena has it in her fifteen year old female body. A certain weight and strength is required to take on the initial charge. Lena has it. Mom is too light and would topple over, getting pinned to the ground instantly.
“Okay, I'll teach you. It's not like I've got any other plans.”
Knight of the Dead (Book 1): Knight of the Dead Page 12