by Mark Tufo
“Becky come on!” Claren urged again. The beast’s mouth puckered as it zeroed in on its next meal. A ravenously long tongue poked out from that round orifice, sampling the air. It had halved the distance in under three seconds. Claren’s left foot had just come down on the first step of the Aston building when she heard shots. A security guard standing atop the stairs had completely unloaded his service revolver into the diseased being just as it leapt for the girls. He waved them on…as if they needed the added impetus. He was fumbling in his pocket for extra rounds when Claren came abreast of him.
“Thank you,” she managed to say as she pushed into the door at full speed. He briefly acknowledged the girl with a head nod, but before he could reload he was struck hard from the side and his shoulder blade bitten through. A searing pain rocketed up his spine and radiated out across his brain plate. He flailed out and struck the creature on the top of the head with the butt of his weapon. Though he repeatedly brought the weapon down, he did not revel in the crunch as he crushed its skull in. The pain from the bite wound was akin to pouring scalding bacon grease onto an eyeball—or so he imagined. He collapsed next to the two fallen creatures, taking in heavy breaths as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his side.
Byron Martinez had wanted to be a policeman for as long as he could remember, he’d even taken the entrance exam and was prepared to enter into the next cadet training cycle. That was until his long time girlfriend, Penelope Whiteside, had gotten pregnant. He’d married her within the month and she’d convinced him that being a cop was too dangerous for a man with a new bride and baby. He’d agreed. They’d settled on campus security thinking the worst he would have to deal with was vandalism and excessive drinking.
“I did pretty good, Pen,” he said as he tore a strip from his undershirt and stuffed it into a hole that would not coagulate. “Tell the baby I love her.” He tried to stand, but felt incredibly light-headed and burning with fever. He yanked off his blue security uniform shirt, he hardly noticed the blood-red blotches forming up and down the length of his arms. He screamed out in pain as the joints in his elbows and knees began to click and pop loudly. He was angry, angry that he was going to die young and alone, with his wife and beautiful baby at home; angry that he would never see her grow up and start a life of her own. Then he became violently irate because he was so hungry. Suddenly he was starving. He turned to get on all fours, and noticed his reflection, clearly visible in a window. He was unsure of what was staring back at him…but at that moment he didn’t care. All he wanted, no—all he needed, was to eat, and his food had just run through that very doorway. He bit off a large fibrous chunk of meat from his own arm before he bounded off.
He smashed his head full force into the door; a starburst formed in the heavy glass. He reared back and struck again, this time making it halfway through. His savagery intensified as a large, long, jagged piece of the window scraped down his forehead, tore through his eye, and traveled halfway down his chest, leaving a deep laceration that bled voraciously. He screeched out in pain, yet he backed up again and blew through what remained of the barrier. He could smell the girls; their perfume and soap and the blessed scent of their meat enticed him like no other dish had ever done before.
He loped into the massive foyer, his head swiveling about as he looked for them. He hit the arm bar for the classroom door and just caught a glimpse of them at the far side of the room as they went through another passageway. The one in front had spotted him, the one leaking viscous viscera from her mouth had not.
“Shit!” Claren had looked up when she heard the door slam into the wall. Becky had been slowing her up since they’d started their retreat and she had a moment of weakness and self-preservation where she just wanted to let go of the other girl’s arm and get to safety. If she’d stopped to think about all the mean things Becky had done to her during her sorority rush week she would have tied a bow around the girl and pushed her back toward the raging beast coming their way. Instead, she pulled her even harder. Becky was stumbling down the stairs; she’d broken the heel on one of her shoes and the other had twisted off when she stepped down awkwardly. She screamed out and nearly tumbled down from the severe sprain.
“Open the door!” Claren begged. She was two flights down when the monster peered over the railing above them. He screeched wildly when he saw the women.
“I can’t move, Claren! My ankle is broken!”
“Get the fuck up, you mean bitch, or I’m going to drag you by your hair!”
The thing above them was leaping down entire half flights of stairs crashing into the walls on each landing. It would shake away the cobwebs and leap again.
“Open the door, please dear God open the door!” Claren was three steps from the bio-hazard marked door. A panicked Devon McCourty’s face appeared in the small wire meshed safety window. Claren reached out and tried to twist the locked handle; it did not move. She banged her hand against the glass, Devon flinched and backed away as she did so.
Something in Becky reawakened when she saw Devon’s face. She was leaning against the door, propped up against Claren. “Listen you sniveling little momma’s boy, open this motherfucking door or I’m going to kick you in that pasty little worm you call a dick!”
Devon stepped forward half a step and placed the extended middle finger from his right hand against the glass, just as a huge spray of blood coated the entire viewing pane. Claren could not even cry out as her carotid artery was severed from the vicious bite. Her head lolled to the side as the monster began to severe through muscle and finally bone. Becky had backed away, hopping on her remaining good leg. She hid in the small concave of concrete that the stairwell had afforded, attempting to cover her ears to the wet, syrupy sounds of her friend being eaten, but the lip smacking and mouth puckering noises were too loud. She barely felt the piercing claw penetrate her calf as it dragged her out from beneath the stairwell, and she certainly didn’t hear her own screams as it stripped her thigh muscle completely off before settling into her midsection and the soft internal organs housed there.
— 1 —
Lawrence Tynes, or BT, Big Tiny, as he was known to his friends, was sitting on a chair, resting his elbows on the deck railing as he looked over the expansive clearing down below. He was a large man, hence the nickname. At 6’5” and two hundred and fifty pounds, he was taller than most, even in the seated position. He was on watch this cool October morning, though not a zombie had been spotted in nearly two weeks. When the world had made sense, he would never have visited the remote Maine woods—much less lived in them. Now he could not imagine leaving. Though he had lost his fiancée in those first chaotic days of the zombie invasion, he’d been given a much cherished second chance when he’d hooked up with the wise-cracking, germ-a-phobic, OCD-addled and ADD-infused walking neurosis named Michael Talbot, a man who he counted among his best friends. In fact, he was like a brother to BT. A lot of good came with throwing his lot in with a man whose credo was act first, worry later, but there was also a lot of bad. And part of that was coming out the sliding door right now.
“Whoa, I didn’t know I was going to be out here,” Trip said as he gazed about, finally settling on BT.
BT could only shake his head. The other man, John the Tripper, or more commonly called “Trip,” gave burnt-out freaks a bad name. Trip was hippie, health-food, kale-eating thin, though he ate more junk food than the participants of a World of Warcraft convention. He had graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and a thin beard that fell midway down his chest. And if he wasn’t smoking a joint, he was thinking about it. Of all the people that called that house a sanctuary, it was Trip that BT avoided being around the most. He hardly ever made sense, but when he did it was terrifying.
BT let his head rest against the railing. “What are you doing out here, Trip?” Sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered asking the other man questions.
“I’m on yeti detail,” he said matter of factly before pulling a perfectly spun j
oint from his breast pocket.
He could not be trusted to stand regular watch, so Mike had come up with Yeti Watch for Trip. It had been a success in the sense that Trip no longer complained about not having zombie spotting duty, but a failure to everyone else because he’d pulled the house alarm four times having “spotted” the other, more elusive monster.
“You think if I act crazy I can get out of guard duty?” BT asked.
“I find it strange they think you’re normal.” Trip exhaled along with a heavy plume of smoke.
“Hey, go smoke that shit somewhere else.”
“Shit? How dare you!” Trip looked genuinely insulted. I’ll have you note this comes from the finest back alley gardens of Detroit!”
Mike came through the doors waving his hands to push some of the thick cloud aside. Heavy bags hung down from his red-rimmed eyes.
“How’s she doing?” BT asked.
“The pneumonia is kicking her ass, her breathing is labored…I’m not sure.” He was talking about Carol, his mother-in-law. “Her chest sounds like she’s blowing bubbles in chocolate milk.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Trip asked.
“Not this time,” Mike said as he clapped Trip lightly on the shoulder, giving him a small smile. “I don’t know if the antibiotics are going to kick in before her breathing gives out. I need to get a hold of a nebulizer for her; breathing treatments might be her only shot.”
“When’s the last time you slept?” BT asked.
“What day is it?” Mike half-joked.
“Twelve days before Halloween—I can’t wait to go trick or treating. You think the neighbors will have some Mars Bars?” Trip asked.
“You’re pushing sixty. You can’t go trick or treating, crazy bastard,” BT said.
“Sure I can, if I wear a headband my wife says I look like Tommy Chong, though I can’t see the resemblance.”
“Just stop talking.” BT put his hand up. “Listen, Mike, I’ll make a run to the hospital, pick up the machine, be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mike said.
“No way. Go get some sleep. You look more like a zombie than anything I’ve seen recently. I’ll get it done, don’t worry. There doesn’t seem to be anything out here anyway.”
“If it’s all the same, I think I’d rather go. I need to get out of here. Tracy is pretty worried about her mother and with my penchant for getting into trouble, well let’s just say I don’t want to be anywhere near her when I screw something up. Plus, hospital runs never seem to go well. I’d feel better if I was there to help.”
“I’d like to go, too. Make sure you both are alright,” Trip said.
“You sure this doesn’t have something to do with pharmaceuticals?” Mike asked.
“Tell me the thought of grabbing whatever you want from a pharmacy doesn’t hold intrigue?” Trip asked.
Mike could only shrug and smirk.
“Hell no, Mike, he’s not going. I’d rather go without a rifle.” BT protested.
“Fine…whatever. I feel like this is prime Yeti spotting time anyway.” Trip said. BT watched as Mike’s head sagged. If he falsely pulled the alarm, Carol and Tracy could potentially lose out on some much-needed rest.
“Jackass,” BT said begrudgingly. “Okay, we’ll take your smoked-out ass, but you start doing or saying any crazy shit and I’m going to lock you up in the psych ward.”
Trip thought on it for a moment. “I’m cool with that. You have no idea the plethora of incredible drugs and crayon colors you can get there.”
“Alright let me tell the missus, grab some gear, and we’ll head out. Hopefully, we’ll have a little bit of luck and this will go smoothly,” Mike said as he went in.
“We don’t need luck, there’s me!” Trip was beaming.
BT tapped his head against the railing. “Let’s gear up, Trip. The quicker we go out and do this, the quicker I can be rid of you.”
“That’s the spirit,” Trip said. “I’ll be right in…I want to finish this,” he said as he held up the half burned blunt.
BT was down in the basement getting his gear together. He had an AR-15, five magazines of thirty rounds each and a Desert Eagle Colt with an additional fifty rounds. He tied up his boots, put on a very large bulletproof vest, and finally adorned himself with a tactical belt to carry all the additional ammunition.
“Going to get some milk?” It was Mrs. Deneaux, she’d been in the family room across from the makeshift armory. The older woman was the definition of a frenemy. If she was on your side and not trying to seek an advantage from your death, she was an incredible ally—smart as a whip and a dead eye shot. She’d been responsible for their safe extraction from a number of volatile situations. Unfortunately, she’d also been linked to at least two of the members in the household’s deaths. Yet she’d still found a way to fall under the Talbot protective umbrella. BT was convinced a spider wearing a clown outfit would be more appealing than that woman.
“Nebulizer,” BT grunted as he cinched his belt tight.
“Hospital run! Fantastic. I’ve been wanting to do something.”
“Fuck no, I’m already taking the stoner. I’ll leave the black widow behind this time.”
“Are you really going to trust that simpleton with watching your back?”
“I haven’t seen a zombie in two weeks, I think I’ll be fine. Plus Mike is coming.”
“And yet you are wearing protective gear and you’ve brought enough ammunition for a sustained firefight. And we all know, that wherever Mike goes, fun is sure to follow. No, I think I’m coming…if for no other reason than I am bored senseless in here.”
“Just great. This is shaping up to be a killer day and there’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”
“Dear boy that’s all I’m saying. You’re better off throwing wet Twinkies at the zombies than having Trip by your side. Mike can be wonderful as well, but wholly unpredictable. I can be of great help.”
“Or detriment,” BT added. Deneaux smiled wryly.
“Let’s pretend that there is nothing for me to gain on this trip other than getting out of this infernally stuffy house. Stretch my legs, shoot a few bullets at zombies, normal all-American things.”
“Yeah I’m sure you were the queen of beer, hot dogs, and barbecue.”
“It’s settled then. I’m glad I already packed.” Deneaux stood, BT noticed the small hand cannon she had strapped to her hip. She adjusted her fanny pack full of rounds.
“I should have just stayed in bed.” BT went upstairs. When he entered the kitchen, Trip was at the sink filling canteens with bottled water.
“Why wouldn’t you just leave the water in the bottle it came in, Trip?” BT asked.
“That would have been a pretty good idea, too,” Trip said as he handed a full and closed canteen to BT.
“No, give me the one you’re about to fill now. That way I can make sure you don’t put anything in it.”
“Then how will I get the water in it?”
“I meant anything extra, I’ve heard how you work.”
Trip topped the canteen off, spun the top on and handed it over. BT watched as Trip filled a third and a fourth.
“How did you know Deneaux was coming? I haven’t said anything.”
“How would I not?” Trip asked over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. I just want to get this over with.” BT absently took a heavy swig from his canteen.
“Oh…okay,” Trip said as he also took a heavy drink. “We should properly hydrate,” he said to Deneaux as she came up the stairs.
“You’re letting him fill the canteens?” She arched an eyebrow at BT. “I wouldn’t let him mow my lawn,” she said as she also took a large swig.
“You cut grass? What kind of monster are you?” Trip asked. “You know the smell of fresh cut grass that you smell after a mowing? Well, that’s a distress signal, that’s basically grass screaming!”
“This is who you want to go out with?�
�� Deneaux asked of BT.
BT grabbed the keys to a Ford F150 pickup truck, one of three that Mike’s brother, Ron, still owned.
“Bring her back in one piece please,” Ron asked.
“Relax. I’m not your brother,” BT replied referring to Mike’s penchant for dismantling Ron’s vehicles at record-setting paces.
“Not cool,” Mike said as he came down the stairs. “Let me just tell my kids goodbye and I’ll meet you outside.”
“You’re not driving, right?” Ron asked his brother.
“Everyone is a comedian,” Mike replied before going downstairs.
“I’m serious!” Ron called after him.
Mike hopped into the back of the cab with Trip, who handed him a near to overflowing canteen. “You should take a sip, so I can close this.”
“You know you could have just dumped out a bit,” Mike said absently as he took a heavy drink then spun the top on.
“I could have, but that would have been wasteful,” Trip responded, Mike didn’t think on it again—at least not then.
They rolled out of Ron’s narrow, tree-lined driveway and onto a roadway that wasn’t much wider. There were times BT didn’t like the cluster fuck of trees. It was too thick; too many things could hide in there. He’d often complained that an army could be in the brush. It was a cool day, even by Maine’s autumn standards, so by the time they hit Route 1, BT had rolled up the window. Leaves, branches, and the occasional burned out husks of cars were all that were on the roadway. Of course, there were more survivors out there, but there were also still plenty of zombies, and the best defense against the brain-eating hordes was stealth. If they didn’t know you existed, they could not eat you. Add to that, the fragile peace that had once existed amongst strangers was destroyed the moment civilization had been flushed down the drain. Just as likely to get your brains blown out as get your kidney eaten in this brand new world.
“Is that fog?” Deneaux asked pointing up ahead on the roadway.