by Adams, Lucia
Once I stopped sliding, I freed myself from its grasp and kicked it away. Unable to see through the film of blood that covered the helmet’s visor, I tore it off and scanned the area for more of the dead, or the dogs that must have given up their chase when they smelled the zombies ahead.
I don’t know how, but the bike was lying atop the first zombie, after dragging it down the road far enough to smear most of the top of its head into the pavement like a maggoty meat eraser. That one was down for the count, but the remains of the second—the one that had ridden me to the ground—were still moving, if a little slowly on account of the lack of legs.
“Fucker,” I grunted, then unzipped the snowsuit and pulled a .45. I stood and kicked the creature in the chest, then shot it six times in the face. The first shot killed it, the other five were for Carmen.
As I slid the gun back into its holster, I was struck by an odd, cold sensation on my back. I reached over my shoulder and realized that the back of the snowsuit was gone, having been ripped off during the accident. Worse than that was the fact that I was covered, head to toe, in zombie goo. Unsure of what the effects of being exposed to their blood might be, I panicked and peeled off my snowsuit, my leathers, even my underwear. Then I strapped on my guns, hopped the guard rail and ran for the lake to wash myself.
After checking my entire body and not finding a scratch—thank you, snow suit!—I dunked my head underwater, an act that caused the breath to freeze in my lungs as well as wake me up. I was in the middle of going over myself for the third time, scrubbing as best I could with my bare hands, when I heard a woman’s voice.
“Are you infected?”
Woman’s voice or not, I reached for my guns, fumbled and dropped one in the water, then turned to face her. Up until right then, shock must have kept me from thinking of the cold. As I lowered the gun toward the water so as not to spook the stranger, I shivered so hard I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to shoot if I had to.
She was pretty. If she didn’t have a rifle pointed at my chest, or I hadn’t been standing up to my junk in freezing cold water, I probably would’ve tried to come up with something funny to say to break the tension. As it happened, I had nothing.
“Fu-fu—”
“Freezing?” she said.
“N-n-no,” I said. “Fu-fu-fucking pricks muh-made me c-c-crash my b-bike.”
“Are you… OK?” she asked.
“I-I think you can s-s-see for yourself that I’m f-fine.”
She shrugged noncommittally, and nodded toward the idling bus. “I have clothes if you need them.”
“Yes, please,” I said, and waded toward the shore.
She turned away with a blush about as red as her hair, and nodded. “I’ll pass them out to you. Wait there.”
As she searched for clothes in the back of the bus, shots rang out from down the road. I ducked my head into the bus and yelled for the woman to come out. “You have friends around here?”
“No,” she said, handing me a pile of clothes. “I thought I was hearing things. Were those shots just now?”
“Yeah, they came from up the road somewhere. You sure you don’t have friends around here?” Not that I didn’t trust her—she seemed nice enough—but trust wasn’t something I was ever going hand out like candy ever again.
“You’re the first person I’ve seen in a long time—well, except for Parker.”
Another volley of shots rang out.
“I’m gonna go check it out. Care to come with?”
“Sure. It’s on the way home anyway.”
CHAPTER 31
The Dailey Farm, British Columbia, Canada
Lucia
I knew why people prayed. When I parked at night to sleep and heard things that used to be human moan in the dark, I prayed too. The flesh fell off of the bones of the older zombies. If they rubbed up against my truck, sometimes they left pieces of themselves on the hood. I didn’t remove them. I’d wait until I was driving and the air would lift the decaying meat until it took flight and smacked against my windshield.
The child sitting on the yellow line on the middle of the road, snacking on someone’s hand—not a severed hand—a hand torn off of a body—should have been my omen to turn around. The freshly-fed afoot was never a warming sight. If Fred had still been with me, he would have told me to turn around—to take another route. But he wasn’t with me, so I made the decision to drive through the small Canadian town.
I hadn’t planned on getting out of the truck—I didn’t need to, but there were all of these flyers, and I wanted to read them. I stopped the truck near a telephone pole some were attached to. They were once rain-wet, but now wind-dried, leaves of newsprint with stories—human stories—of survival, and how the virus spread.
There were many different flyers, and I greedily collected them all by dashing from pole to pole. I carefully ripped them from the staples that they were attached with. They crinkled in my hand and I heard the moan. There were at least a dozen zombies swaying towards me, almost in a synchronized, rotting dance. I jumped into the truck, locked the door, threw the leaflets on the seat, and scrambled for my keys. They arrived at the truck by then, and more were coming. One eyeless woman licked the window with her green and black tongue. I gagged. They pawed at the truck, rocking it. I fumbled and dropped the keys. Even more moved towards the truck. I could hear one trying to climb onto the roof. I stuck the key in the ignition, turned it, and started to pull away. The truck hesitated against the crowd of bodies, but pushed through them with a lurch.
I was terrified.That was a stupid mistake. You have to be more careful.My heart raced and my body felt exhausted. I found my way out of town and turned back on the main road. After a few miles, I pulled over and looked at the leaflets.
The first was about two Canadian teens who were infected on their walk home from the mall. Upon discovering their state, their grandfather tethered them to a post in his basement and provided them with meat from the grocery store until they broke free one night and ate him. The lesson: don’t keep zombies like pets.Yeah, no freakin’ kidding.
The second was even more useful: zombies cannot swim. One woman lived on a raft in the middle of a large pond for nearly 36 hours as zombies tried to swim to her, but couldn’t make it. They don’t have the coordination to swim once the water is above their head.Good to know instead of just guessing that’s how it is.
Some were pictures of missing people, now assumed dead. Others were pages filled with government notices—the same shit my local newspapers had said. There were lists of ‘rumored’ infection-free zones: islands in the South Pacific, Antarctica…all pipe dreams, as the infection had wrapped around the globe like the red cellophane on cinnamon candies.
I examined the directions for Lake McArthur again. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it looked like the last leg of the trip included a road that might not be passable by a vehicle.Fuck! Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? The squirrel costume offered protection, but there was no way I could fight or run in that thing. I needed a dirt bike or something like that.
Up through the fields, a blonde haired woman came running towards the truck, waving her arms. “Help me. Please.” I leaned back in my seat and paused.Can she really see me?Over the hill, behind her, a man in overalls chased her. Well, not a man anymore, but one of those things—and he was quick and fresh. I grabbed my rifle and got out of the truck. I took aim at him, but he was too far away. As he ran closer, I tapped off several shots before he collapsed. I was a bad aim. The woman had dropped to the grass after my first shot. She lay there, sobbing, covering her ears until I called to her to stand up. She rose slowly and approached me. I kept my gun pointed at her.
The whites of her eyes were already red and the snot flowed generously from her nose.
“Stop right there. You’re infected.”
The woman froze, “No, please, you don’t understand. It’s just allergies—fall allergies. I get them every year.”
Yeah, the kind of
allergies that eat your brain and then me. “You from around here?”
The woman relaxed and smiled, “Yeah, my name’s Ginny. I live down the road—the first farmhouse on the left.”
I kept my gun raised. “How many other people were living there, Ginny?”
“Just me and my husband, but that’s who was chasing me. And we took in the neighbor girl.”
“Is she infected too?”
“No, she's fine—just hides in the bedroom a lot.”
“What's her name?”
“Katrina.”
“You got food and stuff, Ginny?”
“Yeah, lots of it. I canned all summer—stuff from our garden. And I got a whole root cellar full of potatoes.”
“Have you seen any zombies around lately?”
“Just one, two days ago, but my husband killed him—that’s how he got infected—fighting that one.”
“What about a dirt bike, Ginny? Did you guys own anything like that?”
“ ‘Did’? Yeah, we do.” She laughed nervously and her head swayed a little bit. “It’s over in the barn. Can you put that gun down, now, please?” A string of snot dangled from her chin. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. “What’s all of these questions aboot?” Her accent was noticeable.
“Do you know where Lake McArthur is?”
“Yeah, it’s not too far from here.” Ginny’s fingers were twitching abnormally.
“Did your husband bite you or scratch you?”
“No. He never hurt me. He was sweet up until this morning.”
JesusFuckingChrist. “Ginny, did you have sex with your husband after he fought off the zombie?”
Ginny switched her weight from one foot to the other while the snot yo-yo reacted according to the corresponding laws of physics. “He lays with me every night. We’ve been trying to have a baby ever since we got married.”
“It’s a fucking zombie apocalypse and you were trying to have a baby?” I yelled.
Ginny nodded and I noticed her eyes were pointed in different directions. I pulled the trigger. She was close enough that my aim was perfect. One shot in the head and she jerked backwards, falling to the ground.
I climbed into my truck and drove down the road to the first farm on the left. I wasn’t far in before I came to a fallen tree across the road. My chest seized for a minute before I noticed the jagged end where it had naturally cracked.This isn’t the doing of rednecks in the woods; calm down.It was small, so I was able to slowly creep up and over it. Just ahead of it was a large mud puddle. I smiled. I loved going through the mud when I was riding at home. But the mud puddle stirred, and from the bottom of it, a zombie sat up and looked at me. He looked surprised to see a truck—if a zombie could be surprised. I was startled, but quickly reached for my gun, wound my window down, and aimed it at him, firing several times to make sure he was dead. I shot into the water in different spots to see if anything else was in there, but nothing moved, so I wound my window up and went through the puddle. It was the lake of all puddles, and deep in the middle, so I maneuvered on the side and pulled through.
When I reached the farmhouse, I put on my squirrel suit and armed myself. Speed was my best bet, but I needed the suit’s protection. The fact that zombies could be in the house scared the shit out of me, but I was prepared. I yelled Katrina's name, telling her to come out, but no one exited the house. I heard a groan and a peculiar zap. I walked around the side of the house. Far off in the field, I saw a zombie tangled in the wire cow fence. Part of it must have had current running through it, so every so many moves, the electric would snap. It was an open field and nothing stirred except for the rotting flesh bag bouncing like a marionette in the wires. He stuck his tongue out and the tip touched the electric fence, giving him a jolt. I watched curiously as he did it a few times, as though he liked it. He didn't even notice me until he caught my smell, sniffed the air, and strained to twist his head unnaturally in my direction. I shot him twice in the face and he slumped over, still hanging from the wires.
“Masochistic fuck.”
I walked back to the farmhouse, my eyes scoping for even the slightest movement in the fields. I noticed the curtains in one of second floor windows fall back, as though someone had pushed them aside to look out. That was a good sign—zombies didn't move curtains to look out windows, they just punched through the glass or fell out of them.
My footsteps creaked as I crossed the wooden porch. I entered the house and scanned the area quickly.
“Katrina, I know you can hear me. If you aren't infected, now is the time to show yourself.” There was no stir or sound of movement. “I'm not one of those things, but Ginny's not coming back, so if you don't leave with me, you'll be here by yourself.”
To be cautious, I put my squirrel head on. I paused and listened. I didn't hear her footsteps, but she appeared at the top of the steps. She was about thirteen years old, dirty, and had the widest eyes that were emotionless, yet locked on me. “Why are you dressed like a squirrel?”
I lifted the squirrel head back off. “The suit is bite-proof.”
“Where’s Mr. Dailey?”
“Who is Mr. Dailey?”
“Ginny’s husband. He owns this farm.”
I swallowed. “He's not coming back either.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Twice-dead or just once-dead, walking around trying to eat us?”
“Twice-dead.”
“Did you kill him?” Her voice was flat and her eyes scanned me up and down before locking with mine.
“Yes. Ginny too. She was infected.”
“Good.”
I blinked and looked away. “Is there anyone else in the house?”
“No. But sometime they come—the once-dead.” She paused. “What's your name?”
“Lucia.”
“Do you sleep in a tree like a real squirrel? That would be a good idea because the once-dead can’t climb trees.”
I laughed, “No, I just sleep in my truck. But my, you're a clever girl.”
“I was top of my class before they ate each other. Now I'm the only person in my class.”
I was growing impatient from being out of the truck so long and because the uppers had me on edge. “So, are you coming with me?”
“Depends. Are you some sort of freak?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then we probably won’t get along. I had high hopes you know, what with the squirrel suit and all.”
“I mean I’m not a threat.” Being confronted with a snarky teenager made me feel old and my coolness meter bottomed out.
“I know you’re not a threat. I’m not afraid of you.”
I looked at her with a raised eyebrow, considering if I evenwanted to put up with a mouthy teenager. “Listen, it’s your choice. If you would rather have a go of it on your own, you can keep your root cellar full of potatoes.”
I turned and began walking out of the door when she spoke, “It depends on where you're going.”
“Lake McArthur. I heard there are some other survivors there.”
“No one's at Lake McArthur. It closes early in the fall.”
“I heard people were going to meet up there.”
“Why? Winters are hard there. We should go south.”
“The south is infected and the zombies move slower in the cold. It's worth a try. If not, we can come back here if you'd like.”
Katrina looked at me. “I don't want to come back here.” I need to get my stuff though.”
“Okay. How about I help?”
Katrina nodded and I climbed the stairs. Once at the landing, she opened one of the doors. Stacked inside were dozens of make-shift weapons: knives were tied and duct taped to a hula-hoop, chunks of broken glass were glued to a baseball, and even an ice chipper had been sharpened to a point.
“Wow, what a collection.” I picked up the baseball. “This won't kill a zombie, you know?”
“They aren't the only thing we have to worr
y about,” Katrina replied.
I looked at her, “I found that out the hard way, too.” She began gathering clothes, stuffing them into a backpack, and tossing weapons into a pile. “So, you like weapons?”
“They’ve been handy,” she said curtly.
“I’m from Pennsylvania.”
She stopped and looked at me, “I don’t care.”
“Fuck, sorry.” I went quiet.
“Look, the last person who tried to ‘rescue’ me told me all about himself and when he got killed, it just made it harder.”
“Oh, yeah... right.”
“It’s okay; I killed him with a rock. I smashed his zombie face in when he tried to eat me.”
My eyes widened. “Shit.”
“See that machete on my dresser?” She nodded her head towards her left.
“Yeah.”
“That was for Mr. Dailey. I swore I heard him growl at dinner last night. I was ready for him.”
“Yeah, he was a growler.”
“I’ve killed lots of the once-dead. Maybe fifty so far. How about you?”
“I’ve lost count. There are a few rednecks in there that might have gotten taken out with my bomb.” I lied to make myself look like a worthy travel companion.
“Cool. A bomb? Can you make them?”
“Pfft... yeah. Easy.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“I had to smash lots of skulls to get out of my school. Lunch trays, a locker door, even a cheerleading trophy—everything’s a weapon.”
“Nice.”
“It wasn’tnice. I had that zombie goo-blood all over me. Fuck that place.”
I realized that talking to this girl might make for long days at the lake. I sighed. “What about your family, Katrina?”
“Kitty. My name’s Kitty. Only my grandmother called me Katrina…and that shit-for-brains Mrs. Dailey. But fuck, that woman could make some amazing blueberry pancakes. Anyways, my family’s dead. All of them.”
I glanced at Kitty and gave her a sad look, “Mine too. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. They would have eaten me. My fucktard brother brought the virus home—he snuck out to meet his girlfriend and got bit in the woods. I locked them all in the house and set it on fire. Burn, baby, burn. You know, even zombies scream? You think they can’t feel pain, but they can if it hurts bad enough. I can still hear it in my head.” Kitty continued to pack as she talked. “Don’t think I’m some creepy fuck cuz I killed my family. They were once-dead. I sent them off to Heaven on a funeral pyre. Hey, aren’t those song lyrics?”