by Adams, Lucia
The zombie chewing my costume tore a chunk of it off. His face rose up and I could see his mouthful of white stuffing. Fred blasted a hole into his head.
“Not so fucking tasty, am I, motherfucker?” I yelled.
“Are you okay?” Fred was panting.
“I’m okay.”
“Did you get bit?”
“No. Did you?”
“No. What about your foot?”
“He only got the costume. Listen, once we get in the truck you can check me over if you’d like, but can you help me get up so we can get the fuck out of here?”
“Yeah.” Fred lifted me up from under my arms like he was picking up a child. “Now gather what you can, fast, and let’s go.”
I wouldn’t bring anything that might have gotten zombie blood sprayed on it, which didn’t leave much. I had already put the beef jerky in the bag, so we had that and a few other things. Several miles down the road, in an open clearing, we stopped and cleaned ourselves off with gauze soaked in rubbing alcohol. After that, we were ravenous. Our mouths were stuffed with several different varieties of snack food at one time.
I spoke, but it was inaudible because my mouth was full.
“What did you say?”
I swallowed, “I said, ‘I hate coconut.’, but, you know, this tastes delicious.” I shoved a raspberry snowball snack cake into my mouth. Fred smiled and nodded his head as he chewed. “It’s kinda stale though. I miss TastyKakes…they were never stale.” I took a drink of warm soda. “That sucked back there.”
“You aren’t a-kiddin’ me.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? That zombie was really on you.”
“Pfft, I’m fine.”
“No scratches?”
“No, no scratches.”
“What next?”
“I dunno. We should look for signs of other people. We haven’t seen anyone for days.”
“I agree. I saw signs for a town up ahead—you wanna try there?”
“How big is the town?”
“I dunno.” I ripped beef jerky off with my teeth and chewed.
“What’s it called?”
“Anaconda.”
“Sounds like a fucking resort for reptiles.”
“Yeah, don’t even make me think about zombie snakes.” I shivered. “Let’s do it before it gets too close to nightfall.”
“Okay.”
Anaconda had lots of zombies, but the infection must have been there for a while because they moved so slowly that they seemed to be stopped most of the time. As we drove through the streets, we didn’t even need to run them over. For the most part, we could just drive around them. We picked a street and started looting. I left the protection of my squirrel costume in the truck in exchange for a gun on each hip, and a machete strapped to my back.
Early on, we encountered a school. The playground was fenced in and about fifteen zombie children paced around. I walked up to the fence and they gathered to me, like when I’d visit the pet store and place my finger on the glass aquarium full of goldfish. The children moved as I moved—from left to right, and back again. I walked away and they emitted these low gravely hisses.
“Fuck off, you little piss-ants. I didn’t like kids when they were alive, and I sure the fuck don’t like you now.”
“Lucia, stop messing with them,” Fred scolded.
We tried not to shoot. Shooting only drew the other dead towards us, as if smelling like fresh meat wasn’t alluring enough. We were methodical in our raids: grab a few items, slash until a zombie’s head was separated from its body, and move on. We checked houses in the town instead of the stores. Most of the stores we’d visited lately had already been raided. The only real chance of finding things was by searching homes. We checked garages for cans of gasoline, kitchens for food and drinks, and everywhere possible for guns and ammunition.
After hours of looting, my arms hurt. I was ready to stop. We were locked back up in the truck when a zombie woman approached my window, slowly. She startled me, but I knew I was safe inside. Her nose was gone, replaced by two pear shaped holes on the front of her face. Her dress looked like it had brown flowers on it, but it was just a pleasing pattern of dried blood splats. She opened her mouth and gurgled something as she cocked her head to the side.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I said.
She tilted her head to the other side and responded with a growl-coo. Her eyeball was loose in its socket and it jiggled around a little.
“You want to eat me for a snack?” I said, my voice bouncing back off of the glass.
She straightened her head and released a slow growl that sounded almost happy.
“Lucia, will you stop talking to the fucking zombies?” Fred started the truck and pulled away from the zombie woman.
“What? She was talking back. And besides, that’s going to be me one day—the smart zombie.”
“Don’t say things like that.” Fred gave me a look that warned me not to speak of my death because that might imply he too was dead, or at the very least, alone.
“You know—I liked those zombies… well, except for the creepy little kids. They were easy to kill, and there weren’t swarms of them. We should go back and loot again tomorrow. Maybe we’ll just drive around for the night or park somewhere. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
CHAPTER 12
Dublin, Ireland
Paul
What a mess. Despair crept over me like a hooded cowl, threatening to trap me in the depths of its dark hood. I wondered if there was any hope at all. Was there anywhere in the world left untouched by this evil curse? I was looking out of the window of my own apartment at the street below. Maybe Mrs. Watson had the right idea. I wondered if she had finally found peace. Was she reunited with little Brian in some better place? I doubted it.
I opened my bag and took out the bottle of Jack Daniels. Was there ever a better time to get roaring drunk? I brought the bottle to my lips, savouring the peaty aroma as I took a mouthful of the whiskey, grimacing as it slid down my throat, burning all the way to my stomach, searching for the cold empty spot inside me that once housed my soul. Then I heard the screams.
“Jesus! Can you hear that? They’re all over the building.” Gary burst through the door. I looked up at him and then back at the bottle in my hand. With regret, I screwed the cap back on.
“Well fuck this for a game of soldiers,” I said, picking up the axe.
I stepped out into the corridor, with Gary right behind me. The screams were louder out there. It was hard to tell where they were coming from, or even who was making them.
“What are we going to do?” Gary asked. I felt like telling him to go fuck himself, to ask him how the fuck should I know? Right at that moment I just wanted to find a dark corner of the world where I could be alone, to drink my bottle of whiskey and forget any of this was happening.
Instead, I started to walk. I headed for the stairs. In a way, I think I’d finally snapped. Having to kill the kid had pushed me over the edge. Our sanctuary was no longer safe; it had been compromised by a gobshite.
“Where are you going?” Gobshite followed me down the stairs.
I just ignored the cunt. I closed my ears to the pleas for help from my neighbours, their screams and cries. I headed down the three flights of stairs, the axe in one hand, the whiskey in the other. Some part of me was hoping I’d run straight into a pack of zombies at each turn, to put an end to it once and for all. I wished I’d had the guts of Mrs. Watson. I wished I’d had the balls to throw myself off the building.
I stepped outside into the street and paused at Mrs. Watson’s body. I lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels to my lips and took a slug as I gazed upon the broken shell of a woman I knew briefly. Another scream pierced the air.
I turned my face to the sky and closed my eyes. I could feel the rain landing little kisses on my skin. It felt good, refreshing, clean. It saddened me to think I would most likely not feel the heat of
the sun on my face again. I drank once more. The bottle glugged as I felt the amber liquid warm me all the way down. It had been a while since I’d last had a drink; I could feel it going to my head already. I was sorely tempted to finish the bottle and find some kind of peace, or at least oblivion.
My brief respite from the real world was shattered as the now familiar smell of rotting flesh drifted in the air, then the terror-inducing low growl. I turned towards the building and saw a zombie framed by the doorway. I contemplated standing there with arms spread and letting him take me. I took another drink, one last swig before flinging the bottle down the road. It shattered with a loud smash echoing in the deserted street.
Bollocks to this.
“Okay, Fuck-face, time to earn your dinner.” I took three strides while he ran at me. Rotting, filthy hands with black, claw-like nails reached for me. I drove the axe into his skull, wrenched it out and, with a swing that could have graced any ancient battlefield, took his head off.
Two more lurched into the lobby. I didn’t hesitate. Like a warrior of old, reveling in the heat of battle, I was on them, my fireman’s axe hacking into them before they had time to respond. Death was no longer a fear for me; I welcomed it.
Kicking in apartment doors, I hunted them down, killing them in a frenzy of violence, until I ended up back in my own apartment. I surprised one in the living room. “Get off my fucking couch!” Before it had time to respond, I attacked it with a fury coming from somewhere deep inside of me, a strength I would never have guessed I possessed.
I realised they were all over the building, and even if I could root them all out, the stink of the place would render it uninhabitable. I walked into the kitchen and turned on the gas cooker. I contemplated sticking my head in the oven and ending it all there and then. That would be the easy way out. What’s wrong with easy?
This was my home, all I’d known most of my adult life. My parents were long gone. I had a brother living in Germany, and a sister in America. I hadn’t heard from either of them since the outbreak. I suppose I had already assumed the worst and did not expect to ever see them again. I was slowly coming to realise the world was fucked. There would be no rescue. Who was left to save us?
I walked from the room and paused.
Fuck it all.
I flicked a match over my shoulder.
CHAPTER 13
Omaha, Nebraska, USA
Sharon
I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, so the only thing I had to throw up was green stomach bile. For a moment, I starred at the garish stain on the hallway carpet and considered cleaning it up. But in the end, I decided that I had bigger things to worry about than my security deposit.
Jenny lay sprawled in the hallway. I watched her, waiting to see if she was going to move, though I knew she wouldn’t. On unsteady legs I rose, walked around behind her, held the muzzle of the gun near the base of her skull, and fired. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I then stepped over her and walked into the apartment. At some point, Jenny had gone outside and been bit; the wound on her arm attested to that. And judging by the large stain of necrotic fluid on the living room carpet, she had died there. Lividity had set in, the accumulating blood giving the backs of her legs a bluish cast. It was safe to say she died late last night. I was guessing that she resurrected about the time the Stealth was making its way down the Missouri river, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
“Parker?” I called out. I heard a whimper from the bedroom and followed it. He had locked himself in the bathroom. She had tried her best to get to him, judging by the bloody handprints all over the white wood.
I tried the knob, but it was locked. It had one of those wimpy locks that you could pick with a hair pin. I didn’t want to do that; I wanted him to come to me. The poor kid was likely traumatized enough as it was.
“Parker, it’s me, Sharon,” I said, being careful not to touch the blood. “Can you hear me?” I heard him whimper, but at least he wasn’t screaming.
“Listen, little guy, I know you are scared, but we really need to leave. Can you unlock the door for me and come out? It’s okay, I promise. Nothing is going to hurt you.” I prayed to God that wouldn’t prove to be a lie.
I kept glancing back towards Jenny. Mindy had been my only experience with a zombie, and she had been behind concrete walls. I knew Jenny wasn’t getting up, but my nerves were on end. I could not get my brain to accept that she wouldn’t rise.
I heard the lock click, and the door creaked open. Huge doe-brown eyes below a mop of blond hair peered at me through the crack. “Aunt Sharon?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s me.” I held my arms out. He threw open the door and flung himself at me. While I held him, I checked for bites or scratches and sighed in relief when I didn’t find any.
“Listen, Parker, I know you’re scared. I am too,” I said, and it was true. “But we need to leave. I need you to be brave right now. And I promise that when we get to where we are going, we can both break down and have a good cry. Okay?” He sniffled and looked up. He had turned eight on his last birthday and was in the second grade.
I smiled and wiped away his tears. I then took his hand and led him into his room. “We are going on a trip. I’m going to pack some clothes for you. Grab a few things that you want, but don’t get carried away. Alright?” He nodded. I closed the door to his room, just in case.
My family regularly vacationed at Lake McArthur in British Columbia, Canada. The lodge was a large two story affair made out of timber and stone that had weathered the winds of time for more than a hundred years. It sat next to a lake that lapped serenely against a shore strewn with pebbles. The outbreak had begun in Greenland, but had moved out. The population was heading south, which meant the best place to be was North. I suspected that the coming cold weather would slow the walking dead down.
With the military retreating, I had little doubt that they would come for me. I had no desire to be locked on a base as their pet biologist. If I was going to leave, I needed to do it now.
Parker’s Thomas the Tank clock showed the time as 6:45 A.M. I found his brightly colored suitcase and threw in jeans, long sleeve shirts, pajamas, and all his underwear, cramming as much in as I could, until the seams bulged.
He had his backpack filled with his DS, an iPod, and some favorite trains. In his arms was a worn Paddington bear that I had brought to the hospital the night he was born. I choked back a sob when I saw it. I had killed his mother, and the Lord only knew where his dad was. With that thought in mind, I took one of his crayons and wrote on the wall:
Jamie, I have Parker. Going to Lake McArthur. I have my cell and Jenny’s cell. Call me if you can, come there if you can. Sharon
Then I wrote my cell number under it just in case he didn’t have it. I had laid the gun on top of a high dresser while I packed. I found that now and eased open the door. “Stay here,” I said, and walked slowly out into the main room. Jenny was still lying there. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her.
I turned and took Parker’s hand making sure he stayed behind me. Jenny’s purse was hanging on the closet door handle. I found her phone and left the rest. On a table nearby was their wedding album. I took it along with a small album full of Parker’s baby pictures. I didn’t really have the room for any of it, but the poor kid was an orphan. He deserved to have some memories of his family in happier times.
“Parker,” I said kneeling before him, “stay here.” I then pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa and covered Jenny up. I didn’t want him to see his mom that way. When I shot the base of her skull, the bullet exited through her face. It wasn’t a nice image for him to be left with of his mother.
He whimpered when he saw her lying there. I hugged him to me and walked quickly past her. I keyed open the service elevator, locked the doors so they wouldn’t close, and put the suitcase and his backpack inside. I then took him into my apartment, shut the door behind me, and locked it. Jenny might not be g
etting back up, but I wasn’t about to be surprised by another zombie.
I had packed for the lodge so many times, it didn’t take me long. Jeans, hiking boots, sweaters, sweatshirts, underwear. I sighed when I looked at all the clothes I’d be leaving behind. I didn’t have kids, so I bought expensive shoes. But a $600 pair of Manolo Blahniks would not be useful in the wilds of Canada.
The one frivolous concession I made was my jewelry. They were sparkly; I liked them. It was enough of an explanation for me, and my jewelry box was small, easy to cram into the bottom of my suitcase.
After taking a few more things from my bathroom, I put my suitcase in the elevator as well. My gun case along with all my ammunition went in there too. As I was standing there trying to think of what else I needed, I happened to look at Rob’s door. I knew he had weapons, and I had the key to his apartment.
The closet in his bedroom was filled with cases. The shotguns I set aside, as the shells were buckshot and wouldn’t kill a zombie. They would only pepper it with holes, not penetrate the skull. I looked to see if he had shotgun slugs—if he did I’d take them. He didn’t, so they stayed. He did have three handguns. I took them all. A huge .357 Magnum that I could barely hold, along with two others that I left in their cases.
Standing up against the back of his closet was a soft, zippered nylon case. I unzipped it and sat back on my heels in awe. It was a high-powered rifle with a holographic scope, which gave it the potential for deadly accuracy. I had no idea how to use it. But I was pretty certain I could manage it.
He also had a box of Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs. It was a full case with fifty high-calorie meals. The lodge should have food, but I didn’t want to rely on that, and we’d need something to eat along the way. It was normally a few days’ drive. But with things the way they were, there was no telling how long it would take.
The elevator was quickly filling up. After one last look around, I was content I had what I needed. There was a fire extinguisher on the wall along with an ax. I grabbed the ax, just for good measure, unlocked the elevator doors, and descended to the parking garage.