Die Trying: A Zombie Apocalypse

by Ryan, Nicholas

  The man watched me uncertainly, his eyes flicking to the pistol in my hand.

  “You changed all that.” I paused. “You made me realize that despite the horror of an undead apocalypse, man is still the greatest threat, the worst danger – the most hideous, monstrous killer. And I can’t let that continue. Not without fighting back for my friend who you murdered, and for the others whose lives you have taken because of your insanity.”

  “I did what I did to survive,” the man said. “I did what any other would do.”

  I shook my head. “No, you went beyond that. You’re a monster.”

  “You can’t kill me. It would be murder!” the old man voice rose, becoming strident. “You would be just like me, and no better.”

  I smiled darkly. “I still retain my humanity,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re insane. Maybe you are – but insanity doesn’t excuse this… this atrocity, nor does it excuse the cold blooded murder of my friend. We might have been a civilized society before the apocalypse, but there was a time when an eye for an eye was the law. I’m bringing that back, as of right now.” I heard the words in my own ears and they were formal and dispassionate, as though I were handing down an executioner’s sentence.

  I shifted my aim, lifting my arm a fraction until the barrel of the old man’s gun was pointed between his eyes. He cringed away suddenly and threw his hands up in front of his face as if to shield himself from the bullet. He started to moan, and then the sound became the soft whimper of terrified sobbing.

  “This isn’t just revenge anymore,” I said. “It was. Revenge is what brought me here. Revenge is what made me hunt you down. But now, it has become much more than that. This is a mercy killing. It’s an execution because if I let you live, I know others will die at the hands of your madness.”

  I took three quick strides across the room towards him. The old man shrieked with fear and cowered away, backing up against the trough of blood so that the contents sloshed over the rim and spilled across the hard earth. When he could go no further, he snarled up into my eyes like a cornered beast, and shrieked a tirade of vicious abuse.

  I put the gun to the top of his head.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The old man’s skull exploded, spattering my legs with the contents. His withered body collapsed and went instantly limp beneath me while the roar of the gunshot in the confined space of the basement echoed off the walls and then finally faded.

  The heavy silence afterwards was even more harrowing. I felt cold and empty and it tormented me. There was no swelling surge of triumph. There was no sense of vindication or justice. There was just the silence and my sickening despair. I cupped my face in my hands and my features felt worn and haggard, as if ravaged by some horrible disease.

  I reeled away. My heart was thumping hard in my chest and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. There was a roar in my ears like the sound of crashing surf and I sweated and trembled with shock. I sucked in great lungsful of air, while the blood fizzed in my veins and the enormity of what I had done began to seep through the fading embers of my fury.

  I turned away, shaken and shocked, and ran up the stairs. A clock in my head started ticking, counting down the seconds as I reached the big heavy door and slammed it shut behind me. There was a heavy steel bolt high up on the door that I had not noticed before. I hammered it into its iron bracket with the palm of my hand, sealing the hideous tomb, and then fled towards the kitchen.

  I went straight for the cardboard boxes stacked carefully on the linoleum floor. They were packed with canned food, blankets, bottles of water and a flashlight. I tore the boxes to pieces in my haste and found a chunky set of keys.

  I left everything behind, strewn across the floor, except the flashlight. I went to the back door and flung it open. The sky was filling with a dark brew of storm clouds that scudded in ragged tatters across the moon. The night was damp, but it wasn’t raining. It was like the air was filled with a suspended drizzle, as if the rain hadn’t quite arrived yet. I ran my fingers through the keys until I found two that were most likely to fit the garage roller doors. Then I burst from the house, and ran – literally – for my life.

  I jammed the first key into the lock of the roller door. It went all the way in, but wouldn’t turn. I reefed it out and thrust the second key in. The lock turned silently and I reached down and heaved the roller door all the way up.

  Soft broken light filtered into the garage.

  It was a large dark space with open rafters. It smelled of gasoline and fertilizer. One side seemed to be loaded up with tools and motor parts. I snapped the flashlight on for two seconds and bounced the light off the walls.

  In the middle of the concrete floor was a Yukon. Maybe twelve years old. Maybe more. I could see the big GMC lettering across the grille. It was grey with dark tinted windows all round. The driver’s side door was unlocked. I slid in behind the wheel. The seat was saggy, worn and tired with age and use, and the interior smelled of stale cigarette smoke. I found the car key and slid it into the ignition. Turned the key and the dials across the dashboard lit up.

  I sat there and did nothing for three seconds – three precious seconds, torn and undecided.

  “Fuck it!” I swore at last. I left the keys in the Yukon and the driver’s door open. I ran to the side wall of the garage and groped around until I found a small can of lawn mower fuel. I shook it and heard the contents slosh. I guessed it was maybe half full.

  More than enough.

  I made a grim dash for the back of the house, suddenly overcome with the suicidal realization that I was risking more than just my own life – but it was too late. I went up the stairs and stepped over the dead body inside the door.

  I splashed mower fuel through the kitchen and then spilled a trail to the back door. I still had Jed’s cigarette lighter stuffed into the pocket of my pants. I put the lighter to the fuel and it went up with a soft ‘whoosh’ in a fireball of flame and searing heat.

  I ran.

  I didn’t look back.

  I raced into the garage and hurled myself behind the wheel of the Yukon. The big engine thundered to life and I stomped my foot down on the gas. The tires screamed on the smooth surface of the concrete floor until the tread bit down in a burning feather of blue smoke. The Yukon leaped forward and I turned the wheel hard, roaring along the driveway with the door still swinging open.

  Dark shapes were swarming from the street towards the house. They came from out of the night, convulsing and writhing, their twisted bodies driven by mindless rage and thirst. I saw them fill the windshield as the car crested the rise of the driveway and the road suddenly appeared beneath the big front wheels. I slewed the Yukon to the right, hauling the steering wheel hard over and grunting with alarm and fright. The front wheels washed into the loose stones in the gutter. The door was flung wide open and caught one of the undead ghouls with the impact of a swinging punch. It sent the zombie flailing backwards into the path of the surging horde behind it.

  The Yukon swayed wildly on its suspension then righted itself, and the engine bellowed like wounded bull. The door slammed shut. The steering wheel was ripped from my hand and the car veered towards a mailbox on the opposite side of the street. I clawed it back, jounced up the curb and then felt my teeth slammed together as the car crashed and bounced back onto the road. The Yukon ploughed over the body of another undead ghoul that flashed across the windshield and then disappeared beneath the grille.

  The clock in my head wasn’t ticking any more.

  It was broken.

  How long had I been gone from the others? An hour? Maybe a little less…

  Surely no more.

  I stole a glance in the rearview mirror. The house was a blazing torch in the darkness of the night. I could hear the fierce roaring crackle of the flames over the low growl of the car’s engine as a column of smoke rose up through a shower of sparks into the sky. The fire glazed the heavy clouds with a fierce orange glow and lit the road ahead of me
for hundreds of yards.

  I crunched my foot down hard on the gas pedal and hung a fast turn until I was on the street where Jed and the others would be waiting for me. I saw the silhouette of the house up ahead. I flicked the headlights on and slammed my fist down on the car horn.

  I braked hard out front of the house and revved the engine. Exhaust smoke hung heavy on the air, drifting in tendrils past the glaring lights. The street ahead was dark and deserted. I could feel the racing thump of my heart as I snatched expectant anxious glances at the shadowed front door of the house, and then into the rearview mirror.

  “Come on!” I growled. I thumped the steering wheel with impatience and then planted my palm down hard on the horn again. “Come on, dammit!” Nothing happened.

  I thrust the flashlight through the Yukon’s window and aimed the bright beam at the house. The door was still closed, and the house stayed dark and silent as a grave.

  Chapter Six.

  I counted to five and then swore bitterly. I left the engine running and flung myself out of the Yukon. I ran across the lawn and threw open the front door.

  “Jed?” I stormed into the living room, my voice rising in anger and frustration. “Jessica? Where the hell are you?”

  I hunted down the hallway and stood for a moment in the kitchen. I was breathing hard. My hands were trembling. I felt a surge of white-hot rage, and it was like a solid lump in my chest.

  “Jed!” I called again. I burst into the bedroom growing wild with panic – and froze in the doorway.

  Colin Walker was crawling across the floor, propped up on his elbows, his legs dragging heavily behind him, and his face a rictus of horrible pain. There were deep lines of agony cut into his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. His skin was ashen. He was drenched in sweat, the flesh from his forearms raw and bleeding. The bed sheets were tangled like a rope around his ankles from where he had thrown himself from the mattress. He looked up at me and his eyes were black and haunted.

  “Jessica,” he said. “Your brother took her.” The words were torn from him through ragged, exhausted gasps. He rolled onto his back and stared blindly at the ceiling. I dropped to my knees beside him. His chest was heaving, yet each breath was a shallow stab of pain reflected in his eyes.

  “Where? Where did he take her?” I asked, not yet realizing the dreadful reality – not yet understanding. “Are they hiding somewhere?”

  Walker shook his head and swallowed. “Pentelle,” he said. “He left us.”

  I stared blankly, the monstrous enormity of it dawning slowly through a heavy fog of disbelief. “You mean he kidnapped her?” I gaped at him.

  Walker nodded.

  I sat back on my haunches and stared dumbly paralyzed with shock. It felt like the walls were closing in on me.

  The anger came like a wave, a terrible heaving surge of fierce animal rage, hating Jed for his betrayal with an intensity that staggered me, wanting to thrash and tear at him until his blood splashed and his bones shattered beneath my fists.

  “How long ago?” I asked, and there was ice in my voice.

  Walker coughed – a wretched sound of pain. “Ten minutes after you left,” he said. “Jessica tried to get away from him, but he hit her. He hurt her, Mitch. Then he dragged her by the hair out the front door.”

  Almost a full hour’s head start. It was a lot.

  I shook my head. “They left on foot?”

  Walker nodded. “To find a car.”

  There were clothes scattered across the bedroom floor. The wardrobe doors were wide open. I snatched up the first t-shirt I could find and pulled it on. My eyes searched the rest of the room quickly. The nylon bag was missing.

  “I tried to stop him…” Walker said weakly. “He took my gun. There was nothing I could do.”

  I nodded. The pain in his eyes wasn’t just physical. He was Secret Service, and he had been unable to protect the person whose safety he was responsible for.

  I eased Walker up into a sitting position, with his back propped against a wall, and his legs stretched out in front of him. He clutched at agonizing pain in his chest and blinked away sweat and tears from his eyes.

  “I’ve got a car outside,” I said hastily. “But we have to move right now.” As I spoke I was hunting through the nearest wardrobe for leather belts. I found two and knelt by his feet. I looked up into Walker’s eyes. He was shaking his head mutely.

  “I’m going to strap your legs together,” I explained. “I think they’re broken. But if I can bind them, I can carry you out to the car.”

  “No…” he flapped his hand in a weak gesture of dismissal. “I can’t. I can’t make it. Leave me here. Getting Jessica back is all that matters.”

  I lifted his legs carefully and slid the first belt under his ankles. I tightened the notches until the strap was firm and Walker was biting down hard on his lower lip to stop himself from screaming.

  “You’re coming with me!” I said. “You can make it!”

  He shook his head once more. He seemed to be getting weaker by the minute. I raised his legs again, slid the second belt beneath his knees, and cinched the buckle tight as I dared.

  Walker groaned. His breathing was shallow. His head lolled to one side and he stared at me from under heavy drooping eyelids.

  “I can’t…”

  “You can!” I insisted. “I need you, Walker. Jessica needs you.”

  Precious time was seeping through my fingertips. Every wasted second put Jed and the girl further away – and brought every undead ghoul within a mile inexorably closer. In less than an hour it would be sunrise.

  “Okay,” Walker said weakly. “But give me your gun. You can’t carry me and fight off zombies at the same time. I’ll cover us until you get me into the car.”

  That made sense. I put the old man’s gun in his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. He looked down at the weapon, his movements lethargic and uncoordinated. He frowned. “This isn’t your gun,” he said, turning the weapon over in mild surprise. “It’s a Glock 19. Where did you get it?”

  “From a dead man,” I said grimly, and then explained. “From the man who murdered Clinton Harrigan – the same man I took the car outside from.”

  The gun hung in Walker’s lap. I crouched down to heave him to his feet so that I could carry him, but he held his hand up suddenly. “The water bottle,” he pleaded. “It’s on the other side of the bed.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t see the water bottle. “I’ll find you another one.” I said. I was on the verge of panic. It felt like hours had passed since I had discovered Walker, even though in reality it could only have been a few minutes. I imagined the night beyond the house filling with undead as they began to drift away from the burning house in search of fresh prey, and others closer were drawn to the sound of the Yukon’s horn and idling engine.

  “Please…” Walker pleaded again.

  I got to my feet. I was irritated. I hunted round the bed. I pulled at bed sheets, kicked clothes out of the way. I couldn’t see the bottle. I dropped to my knees and glared under the mattress.

  Then I heard a groan.

  I looked up. My eyes went straight to Walker. His head was leaning back against the wall, but his eyes turned in their sockets so that he was looking at me. His mouth was wide open, and the barrel of the Glock was thrust into his mouth.

  We stared at each other for just a split-second – long enough for me to realize with horror what he was doing and to understand why, but nowhere near long enough for me to move, or even cry out.

  He pulled the trigger, and the bullet blew out through the back of his head, spraying the wall with blood and gore. His body slumped sideways like a falling tree, the gun still gripped in his lifeless hand.

  “Christ no!” I swore in the agony of bitter frustration. But I didn’t scramble to Walker’s aid. There was no point. He was dead, and there was nothing I could do. I stood over his body, paralyzed for more seconds than I could spare, and then I went down
on my haunches and gently prized the gun from his fingers while fresh blood pumped from the wound and seeped into the carpet around my feet.

  Walker had sacrificed his life to buy me time – time to escape in the Yukon to pursue Jed and the girl. He knew the gunshot and blood would draw the undead to the house. I dared not waste what small chance he had given his life for.

  I ran through the house, back out through the front door. I paused on the grassy shoulder of the road for a split second and cast my eyes towards the east. The night sky was lightening – the faintest, softest glow of a new day about to dawn through a veil of dark purple clouds.

  All around me, the night seemed to be alive with dangerous movement and sound. I saw drifting shapes like ghostly apparitions appear at the end of the road, and then I heard a sudden snarling growl from over my shoulder. I spun on my heel and threw the Glock up in an action that was purely reflex. A figure lunged for me – the body of a huge fat man, its skin withered and dry, its features desiccated and shriveled. The sound in the ghoul’s throat became a keening wail of triumph. It was so close – towering over me like an avalanche of rage – close enough to smell the rank fetid stench of its breath and hear the hiss of air across its throat. At the last possible second I pulled the trigger and the recoil of the gun was like a liquid pulse that jolted up through my hand and the muzzle blast beat thunderously against my ears.

  The shot tore a ragged hole in the ghoul’s forehead and punched it backwards into the grass. I swung the gun in an arc. Behind the zombie was another figure, its body spasming as it burst from behind a dense garden bush. It had been a woman. Now it was a shriveled emaciated ghoul with a wiry tangle of black hair, its arms and legs thin as sticks, its skin dry and dusty as parchment. I fired twice. The first bullet missed completely. I heard it ricochet away into the night. The second shot hit the zombie in the shoulder and flung it round in a tight circle. It teetered like that for an instant and then dropped to its knees, glaring hatefully over its shoulder at me, still snarling with venom.