“It’s over a mile from here.”
Dennis slid the knife up, holding the blade with the tips of his fingers. “I’m here to get some things for my baby. I have a wife and two children, man. You don’t want to do this. You know who I am. Think it through.”
“Everyone in this situation has a baby, don’t they?” Elijiah wrapped his finger around the trigger. The gun, pointed no less than three feet away from Dennis Jackson’s head inched closer as the crazed man took a step forward. “I’ve been to that store. Whole place destroyed. There was one of the managers on the floor with one of those skinwalkers on top of him. The horrible thing was slurping his intestines out like they were made of spaghetti.”
“I bet you got off watching that, didn’t you?”
Elijiah shrugged his shoulders and gave Dennis that playful, ‘what me worry’ look. He laughed in his thick Cherokee accent and lowered the gun slightly. He was laughing so hard that he was nearly hysterical. Large tears welled in the corners of his eyes. The young man reached up with his free hand to wipe them away. As soon as he did, Dennis slid the knife further down his hand and threw it underhand. The long spring-assist hunting knife hit exactly where Dennis had aimed. The sharpened blade whistled through the air quicker than Elijiah could open his eyes. The knife buried itself up to the hilt right above his Adam’s apple.
Elijiah mumbled. He was unable to scream. He put his hand to his throat and felt at the knife with a horrified look. He tried to say something as he stumbled backwards. The guy couldn’t make a sound. Dennis had severed his windpipe. The would-be assassin crumbled to the ground; the knife bringing blood down his chest in waves. He gargled and choked. It was a sound Dennis wished he hadn’t heard. He hated to hurt anyone, let alone kill them, but there was no option other than returning back home safely to his family. He didn’t murder anyone in cold blood. Elijiah was fucking warned. Dennis walked past him and picked up the bike. He mounted it with his eyes cast away from the man drowning in his own blood. Just hearing the sounds he made was bad enough. Dennis had one foot on the pedal when an ear-splitting bang rang out. Out of instinct, Dennis hit the ground and flattened himself. That bang was incredibly loud. That shot came from somewhere close. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears when he saw Elijiah holding up the gun with a shaking, blood-soaked hand. He let the gun drop with a strange look on his face. It was like he had been smiling. He let the gun drop and rolled flat onto his back. The dying man let his hands stay at his side and did not attempt the pull the knife out. He must have known that despite the blood loss, it was actually keeping him alive. If knife were to be yanked out, Elijiah would bleed out in less than a minute. He forced a smile with teeth stained a reddish-brown from the blood still coming up from his throat.
“Why the hell are you smiling, you crazy . . .” Dennis looked down and saw the small puddle of spreading red underneath him. He couldn’t believe he didn’t feel the bullet that passed right through the thigh of his right leg until he looked at it. He’d just been shot in the upper leg at close range. If it didn’t hit bone, it would just be a flesh wound. Dennis wobbled to his feet and kicked the gun out of Elijiah’s weak grasp with his good leg. The man with the new hole where his windpipe was uttered a thick, syrupy cough that almost sounded like a laugh. His teary, fluttery eyes turned toward Dennis and his smile widened. He wasn’t looking at Dennis. He was looking at something behind him.
The sound of them running went from a distant echo to a thunderous approaching hum . . . like someone turning up a volume knob. They were a block away. At least a hundred of them were running as fast as their shredded, burned, boiled and rotting legs could carry them. If Dennis had made just one second-long mistake, he wouldn’t have gained even the slim opportunity to escape with his life. If the spreading fire in his thigh caused him to fall or lose his footing for even a second, he’d have died. Despite the incredible pain, he pedaled with every ounce of strength he had. They were directly behind him. Dennis didn’t want to, but he looked behind himself. There were a little more than ten chasing him. The two in the front were partially skeletal. One ran after Dennis with a lower femur exposed. It had bite marks all over it. Another one had its neck broken or dislocated. As it ran, its head rolled left and right at the shoulders. There was one that appeared as though he was buried quite a long time ago. He was wearing a Confederate Army uniform. As Dennis pedaled faster than he knew was possible with a bullet in his leg, he heard Amanda’s voice in his head. She was the voice of comfort. The voice of reason. Now, she was the voice of warning.
GET HOME.
He only glanced behind him one more time. The runners had caught some movement in the public library. Someone had opened and shut a door. The advancing dead had stopped chasing Dennis. Probably went to get some more easily-accessible sustenance. He also saw something at the front of the church. The zeds had torn Elijiah in half at the waist and tossed the upper half of him aside, where it was ravenously dug into by the large group that had split. The lower half was cleaned out . . . everything pulled out by the horde of the infected and eaten. Just looking back for another quick second was enough to see a bit more. Some of them were hunched on the ground, pulling out whatever they could from Elijiah’s upper half. Others were ripping his arms out of the sockets and tearing the skin off with their teeth. Ol’ boy was not going to come back as one of them. He’d been ripped apart and every piece of him scattered throughout the crowd. Fate had no interest in preserving any part of the strange and disturbed young man. Those that attacked him were starved and desperate to fend off the painful hunger inside of them. Elijiah won’t have anything left of him. They’ll even suck the marrow from his bones.
Dennis Jackson rode until he couldn’t breathe in that gas mask any longer. His leg was on fire . . . and the fire spreading everywhere. He was still bleeding, but only one thought entered his mind. GET HOME. GET HOME. He reached the house and stumbled off the bike. The throbbing, oozing leg turned one whole pant-leg red. The slightest amount of weight on it was excruciating. He could see a military vehicle. It was one of those armored personnel carriers, parked about thirty yards from the house. It was there . . . and three men with assault rifles were standing around the APV, forming a tight circle around it.
Amanda was at the door. He raised his arms and attempted to shout her name. Nothing escaped his lips. Just a whispering as he limped forward on the grassy hill that lead to the gravel driveway. She stared at him and as she made contact with his eyes, Amanda was pulled back into the darkness of the candle-lit house. Her scream echoed through the air and past Dennis, where it hung in the air behind him somewhere in the heart of the bottoms . . . like the voice of a phantom. For a moment, he thought they had entered the house. The worst images played around in his head. She imagined those horrible things coming through the windows and dragging his beautiful wife away from the door and out the hole in the window, where she would be eaten alive. Oh, god . . . what if the kids are infected? Ryan could not have dragged her back like that. Ryan. Jason . . . my little baby. How could this happen? Please let them be okay. As he lurched forward on his throbbing leg, he noticed that he began to feel terribly cold . . . that pins-and-needles feeling one gets when an extremity falls asleep. As much as he tried to will himself out of it, he knew he was going into shock. A fine trail of blood had followed him from where he got off the bike.
The look on her face was so strange. She looked at him as if he were something else. Like he was what the Cherokee called skinwalkers. Just demons . . . empty, lost souls that were known to inhabit the bodies of the living in order to move about the world freely. That look in her eyes. She didn’t see her husband. She saw the skinwalker that had taken his place.
She thinks I’m one of them.
What if all the legends were true about the skinwalkers? What if the Native Americans somehow knew that this would happen? Dennis had to force the thought out of his mind. It was enough to make someone mad.
Mad.
“No . . . wait . . .”
Chief Petty Officer Englund ran out of the house with two large duffel bags slung around his shoulders. Running to the now idling vehicle and tossing them into the back, his eye caught the stumbling, bleeding man making his way up the driveway. He could hear the woman screaming over the loud diesel engine. Englund reached into the APV and grabbed his rifle. Dennis could see it from his vantage point. A flash emitted from the long barrel and Dennis felt a rush of air by his head.
What the hell are you shooting at?! I’m not one of them, you assholes!
More rounds popped off, hitting the ground around him and kicking dust into his eyes.
“No . . . stop . . .” Dennis waved a hand in the air and caught one in the palm. It just grazed the meat of his hand, but it was enough to stumble backwards and fall into the shallow water that lined both sides of the driveway. Dennis lost his footing and fell into the cold, murky moat. He could still hear the loud pops from the rifle under the dirty water. Bullets were striking the surface all around him. The water was so dark that all he could hear was the strange, high-pitched wooshes of the projectiles as they passed around him. After a few seconds, the bullets stopped. Dennis lifted his head just past the surface. They were gone. The APV had left with his wife and two children inside.
Darkness enveloped Dennis Jackson. He slipped back into the moat . . . the mind willed to crawl out, but the body only made it halfway onto the gravel driveway when he hit the black.
Dennis Jackson closed his eyes and prepared to die.
CHAPTER 10
I
“Watch his leg.”
“Be careful with him.”
Amanda.
“Looks like he’s breathing again. I think he’s coming to . . .”
No . . .
CHAPTER 11
I
“It’s a plane . . .” Darin Miles whispered as he leaned over the high concrete wall. He extended his arms to Victoria and hoisted her up. They sat on top of the perimeter wall together to catch a glimpse of the small blue and white plane taxi down the runway. It idled for a moment and the propeller at the front came to a stop.
“We found someone,” Vic whispered back into the sounds of the wind that had resumed their place. “We finally found someone!” She clapped happily and jumped down the to-person high wall, nearly twisting her leg. Victoria was already running toward the plane with her arms waving in the air before Darin lowered himself onto the tarmac. He ran after her, catching up to her just as the Cessna’s front door opened. A young guy, no more than thirty-five, hopped out and arched his back with a grimace. When Darin and Victoria came around the plane, the man’s eyes widened. Doctor Miles could swear the guy’s jaw was low enough to hit the ground.
They’d located another person. Darin Miles and Victoria Rains were as happy as they would have been if they’d found a whole field of Archies over that wall. As the two walked up to the pilot, Darin took out a small packet of the plant extract.
If he thinks we’re happy . . . wait ‘till he sees this.
II
It was an old sight for a hunting rifle, but it worked fine as any pair of binoculars he could have gotten anywhere else. The man and woman had greeted the pilot. Now they stood around talking with big smiles and handshakes like they were old fucking friends. Maybe they were. It was a small world, after all. This vantage point was far enough away to not hear what the three of them were saying, but close enough to make out everything through that little scope.
“First plane I’ve seen in months . . .” the observer whispered to the others inside the control tower.
“You can fly that thing?” a voice said behind him.
“Yep. It’ll be a little cramped, but I think I can fit all five of us in there. Nice bird he’s got there. Fast one too.”
“Well then, let’s go get it.”
“I wouldn’t go all Rambo out there if you saw what that boy was packing. Sucker’s got an assault rifle strapped to his back. We just watch them for now. They aren’t goin’ no place for a little while. I’m sure they have a lot to talk about. Even if they do get ready to leave, we flag ‘em down real nice and friendly. Then, take it.”
“Why we don’t just do that now?”
Antonio Brown turned around and glared at his brother. “Because I’d rather not kill three people to take the plane if I can help it. We steal it, not take it by force.”
“Since when did killing people for what we need bother you?” Jared Blair spoke up. He lit a cigar and got up out of his chair, slamming a clip into his gun.
“Doesn’t,” Antonio said. “Just don’t want to waste the ammo.” Antonio stepped away from the tower’s observation windows and took a seat on the floor. “Watch ‘em,” he said to his younger brother and tossed him the scope. His brother clumsily caught it and took over the watching duties.
They’d found this natural fortress together. Well, not really found. Antonio worked at the airport as a mechanic after his pilot’s license got revoked. Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years as a pilot taken away because of one incident. All pilots have a little swig of the good ol’ liquor every once in awhile. Calms the nerves. That one day, though. He remembered it well. The engine failed during an emergency landing . . . the landing gear malfunctioned, too. Of all the fucking shit. It wasn’t the prettiest landing, but it wasn’t like anyone died. Seven people walked out of that little winged flying shitcan without a scratch. If he didn’t have the liquor on his breath, they would have given him a medal. Nope. Instant termination. He wasn’t even supposed to work around planes anymore, but the boss-man showed mercy on him.
They’d holed themselves up in the control tower since the outbreak started. There were enough wanderers, passers-by and food already stocked at the airport to sustain everything. That was the rule now. Every man for himself. Like that guy who pulled in four weeks ago. He had a car that worked, a trunk full of bottled water and a whole carton of smokes. They didn’t even have to fire one bullet. Antonio knocked him out as cold as he slept in his car. Little brother Richard dropped the man off on the roof of a US Bank downtown. They weren’t animals, but gotta do what you gotta do. They were just going to leave him there. Stupid prick woke up before they could all leave. The stranger tried to wrestle Jared’s gun from him, but Richard tossed the asshole off the roof. They didn’t mention it to each other because it was about survival now. Just Jared and the two brothers . . . plus their two Rottweilers that belonged to Antonio’s neighbor. The dogs were good to have around. Doesn’t hurt to have something with three-times your hearing capacity when something tries to sneak up the stairwell. The stairs that lead up to the control tower were barricaded, anyway. There were enough cars and plane parts to block off the path for good. Richard had made a really nice pulley-harness system to get in and out. At first, it was terrifying to ride that thing all the way down, but they got used to it eventually. Even the dogs. It sure helped that Richard had an engineering degree.
“’Go there now,’ he says . . . shit,” Antonio said. “Yeah . . . three large niggers with guns going out there to check on those three little suburban
white-asses out there? Not a give-away at all. Plus, you know Bobo and Henry will start barkin’ all ape-shit. Those dogs can fucking smell white meat, man. No. We just wait and watch. Even if they get ready to haul ass, we can still get down there to get the plane in the time it takes for it to even start up.” Antonio craned his head and looked over to his brother. “Hey Rich, what they doin’ now?”
“They just went into the diner. Motherfuckers are gonna eat all the food we have stored up, man. This is horse-shit.”
“They’re not cows, ass-dick,” Jared said. “People don’t survive this long by pigging out everywhere they go. They’ll ration it. Let ‘em eat.”
III
Where am I?
Waking up didn’t feel instantaneous to him. His leg had stopped bleeding. Dennis got out of the water and looked around. It was twilight again. Had he slept an entire twenty-four hours? Everything was down to a dull roar, even the shot in the pad of his hand. It was numbed down enough to where he could stand up, anyway. It took quite a bit of effort to do it, but he stood on his feet. His entire left side . . . shoulder to sock was soaked in the cold water. For a moment, Dennis tossed away all thoughts in his mind and wondered how dirty that shit was. He’d seen a dead deer floating in it a few days ago. The doe had been torn apart be dogs . . . either that or a car had hit it god knows when and the carcass washed up in the bottoms when it flooded. The damage looked a little more animalistic in nature, though. Not like a car. There were wild dogs in this area. On rare occasion, the gaming authorities will catch sight of a bobcat roaming around. Could have been that.
The Zombie Letters Page 17