First Zombie

by Fisher, Sean Thomas

  Looking up from his wedding band, Finn spoke through clenched teeth. “I told you, he was…”

  “A zombie.” Exhaling a tired breath, the detective dropped the pen to the table and leaned back in the chair. He folded his arms across his chest, resting them on a swollen beer gut that made him look pregnant. The air-conditioning kicked off and the string stopped dancing from the vent. The chair squeaked. The detective’s stomach growled. Telephones rang outside the room while Finn’s heart banged in his ears.

  “Look, I’m telling you the truth! The guy was dead! He stumbled into my yard and came up on the deck, reaching for me with his mouth hanging open.”

  “Like he wanted to eat you?”

  Finn dropped his hands to the table and smiled. The more they went over it, the crazier it sounded and, holy shit, what if he was losing his mind? Though rare, there are records of people his age suffering at the arthritis twisted hands of dementia. Possibly even a stroke. It wasn’t unheard of.

  “How much did you have to drink tonight?” Holland’s bushy eyebrows went up and Finn could almost see the color of his eyes.

  “Not even two margaritas.”

  Holland scribbled something down, sending a cringe worming through Finn. “And the joint on the back deck?” He looked up from the pad of paper. “How much did you smoke tonight?”

  Insides twisting, Finn could feel his cheeks flushing with heat. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and looked away. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” The detective snorted in disbelief. “Your wife tells us you enjoy zombie shows.”

  He spread his palms. “And?”

  “And sometimes the mind has a way of playing tricks on us, especially when combining drugs and alcohol.”

  “It wasn’t playing a trick on me. I know what I saw.” Finn ran a hand through his short, brown hair, anger rising in the back of his throat. “Did you call the cemetery behind our house?”

  “Someone is on that as we speak.”

  “Good! Now, where’s my wife? I want to see her.”

  “She’s down the hall filling out a report with Officer MacMillan. As soon as they’re finished, I’ll bring her in to speak with you. Okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  Detective Holland sighed and leaned in closer. “Listen, Finn,” he said, clasping his hands on the table. “I appreciate you taking me through what happened. I know it’s an arduous process but your honesty will help us get to the bottom of things and, subsequently, get you home that much quicker.”

  “Tonight?” Finn’s eyebrows shot up in a hopeful gesture. “I can go home tonight?”

  The detective stared blankly at him, masking his inner voice by sipping some coffee. Phones were starting to ring off the hook out in the station behind him, cops pacing back and forth. Holland set the cup down and cleared his mustache with a hand. “Mr. Bryson, you are facing a possible murder charge here. No one is going anywhere until we figure out what happened in your backyard this evening because, the way things stand – at the very least – you’re looking at five to ten for manslaughter.”

  The floor dropped out beneath Finn and his stomach did a somersault. He couldn’t believe his night went from sixty to zero in the blink of an eye. The future whisked through his mind in painful bursts of light: Prison. Hostile cellmates. Slippery soap. He would never sleep in the same bed with his beautiful wife again and that would devastate him the most.

  “I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Finn dialed the detective back into focus, back tightening down the middle.

  “I don’t think this elderly gentleman was trying to kill you at all. I think that, more than likely, he suffered from dementia and accidentally wandered into your backyard.”

  Finn pounded a fist against the table. “That’s not what happened!”

  “I also think you had a few too many drinks tonight and, after smoking some of the evil weed, your imagination got the best of you and you panicked.”

  Hanging his head, a slow-moving grimace rolled through him. “I want a lawyer,” he finally said, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his chest.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not answering anymore of your stupid questions, that’s why.”

  Holland combed his mustache with a hand, knee bouncing beneath the table. “Now, it seems like you have something to hide.”

  Finn held the man’s steady gaze and bit his lip, sweat sprouting along his forehead.

  “Do you have something to hide, Finn?”

  The door popped open and Officer MacMillan poked her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got something you need to see.”

  Exhaling an irritable sigh, the detective waved her in. “What’d you find, Mac?”

  Leaving the door open, she handed him a printout of something, trading an unreadable look with Finn. Holland’s thin gaze moved carefully across the sheet of paper, digesting the information line by line, the color slowly leaving his jowls.

  “What is it?” Finn asked, looking up at Mac. “Was there another attack?”

  Holland glanced over his shoulder to the commotion going on outside the room.

  “There’s a body missing from the funeral home behind you,” Mac told him, pulling a pair of leather gloves on. “The description matches the perp in your yard to a T.”

  The small room grew deathly still. Someone shouted something about a ten fifty-four on the south side of town and somebody else replied with something Finn couldn’t understand.

  “Are you serious?” he panted, an odd mixture of hope and dread blooming in his chest.

  The detective twisted around in the chair to stare out the door. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  Mac shook her head, watching her coworkers gear up and disappear outside. “I’m not sure,” she answered, drifting out the open door.

  Detective Holland pushed out of the chair with a grunt and followed her out into the station. Finn’s heart beat faster in his chest. It was happening. He could tell by the frightened looks and frantic voices. It was written all over their faces.

  Getting up, he crept across the room and stopped in the open doorway. Detective Holland bent over a messy desk and picked up a ringing telephone. Nodding, he feverishly scribbled something down and hung up. He tore a piece of paper off and stormed toward Finn, weaving between the officers buzzing back and forth like a game of Frogger. Holland stopped and stared at him for a long moment before grabbing a brown sports jacket from a coat rack next to him. Without another word, he slung the coat over an arm and turned on his Buster Browns. Finn watched him exit the station in a hurry, mind whirling. In a matter of seconds, the phones went unnervingly quiet and everyone was gone.

  Finn stepped out into the station, blood pounding thickly in his temples. “Hello?” he called out, scanning the large room. The lights flickered and no one answered. Barely breathing, he navigated a maze of desks on shaky legs. “Hello?” He stopped to listen. Silence hummed in his ears and a door clicked open down a long hallway, snapping his head around.

  “Oh good,” Mac breathed out, exiting another small room with Miranda right behind her. “I was just coming to get you.”

  “Finn,” his wife cried out, racing past the pretty cop.

  He swept Miranda up into his arms and spun her around, hugging her tightly. “Are you okay?” he breathed into her neck.

  “Yes, you?”

  Drawing apart, he cradled her cheeks in his palms and looked her over, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “I was right.”

  “I know,” she panted, visibly shaken. “I can’t believe it; I thought you were high.”

  He hugged her again, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Right when everything was going good for us.”

  “I hate to break up your family reunion, but we have to go.”

  Pulling apart, Miranda and Finn tur
ned to Officer MacMillan with frowns tugging on their faces. “Go where?”

  “This way,” she answered, storming off.

  Finn swapped a baffled look with his wife before taking her hand and leading her down the hallway, phones beginning to ring off the hook out in the station again.

  Point, Shoot, Repeat

  The station’s armory was large and damn near picked clean, and that scared Finn to no end. This was really happening. He could tell by how fast Officer MacMillan was packing the remaining guns and ammunition into a black duffel bag.

  “Like I said, the body missing from Glendale matched the victim in your backyard,” Mac said, stuffing a pair of lightweight night vision goggles in the bag. “Apparently, he’d just been prepped in his coffin for a funeral service at seven o’clock this evening. When the mortician went back into the room around six-fifteen, he noticed the man missing from the coffin.” She grabbed one of the last handguns from a shelf and ejected the magazine. Inspecting it, she slapped it back in. “His name was Sheldon Leicht, an eighty-nine-year-old veteran of World War II.”

  Grimacing with the man’s personal information, Finn tried lassoing one of the thousand questions stampeding through his mind. “How many are out there?”

  Mac yanked the slide back and racked a load. “Judging by the calls coming in from around town, a lot. More than likely, your sighting was the first zombie.”

  He blinked at her, unsure if he just heard her correctly or not. First zombie? How could such a thing even exist? And why? He grasped at words just beyond reach, lips moving but nothing coming out.

  Noting the shock welling in his eyes, she gave him a weak shrug. “Hey, there’s a first time for everything.”

  “So…that’s what they are then? Zombies?”

  “If that’s what you call corpses rising from their graves to eat people, then yeah. Zombies.” Mac extended the handgun to him. “Can you shoot?”

  Finn looked down at the matte black nine-millimeter, heart fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage. “Yeah, I can shoot,” he replied, taking the Glock 22 and ensuring the safety was on. “Are they really rising from their graves?”

  “That’s what Glendale seems to think, either that or someone is digging them up.”

  “This can’t really be happening.” Miranda pulled hair from her face. “Can it?”

  “We’ve received multiple reports of the dead attacking people. The ones who are bitten, die shortly thereafter before coming back as a zombie.”

  “Oh my God,” Miranda coldly whispered. “Just like on TV.”

  “Yeah, except this isn’t TV.”

  Finn’s eyes fell to the gun in his hand, mind spiraling out of control.

  “It’s fully loaded with one in the chamber – hollow-points all the way,” Mac told him, drawing his glassy eyes back to her. She took a smaller handgun from a shelf and removed a tag from the trigger guard. Her eyes rose to Miranda. “This is a Ruger LCP II that was used in a recent robbery. It’s a small .380, but when used with hollow-points will make a dent.” Her eyes jumped between them. “It’ll take both of you working together to survive this.”

  Placing a hand over her heart, Miranda stared at the .380 in wide-eyed wonder. “I…”

  “It’s easy. When the gun runs dry, eject the magazine like this,” Mac told her, pushing a small button and ejecting the magazine. “Then slap a new one in with your palm. Hard,” she said, slapping it back in. “Pull back on the slide and load a round into the chamber, like this.” The pistol clicked when she racked it. “Turn off the safety. Point, shoot, repeat.”

  Taking the weapon with unsteady hands, Miranda looked up at her husband, uncertainty swimming in her eyes.

  “Hey,” Mac said in a soft voice, setting a hand on her wrist. “You can do this, Miranda. You have to.” She grabbed two paddle holsters from another shelf. “Slip these in your waistbands.”

  Finn and Miranda put the holsters on and stuffed the handguns inside, walking around the room to test the weight.

  Sighing, Mac zipped the duffel bag shut and handed Finn a shotgun. His shotgun. He held onto it while she cut an evidence tag from the barrel. “You’ll have to load it.” She passed him a box of shells. “I’ll give you enough ammo to get out of town,” she said, packing a smaller bag with different rounds of ammunition.

  “To go where?” Finn asked, loading the shotgun.

  She shrugged at him. “I’m going to help my team hold this town, but if shit hits the fan, I’ll grab my fiancé and head south to my parents’ trailer in Lamoni.” She zipped the smaller bag up and set it next to Finn. “It’s private and I suggest you meet us there, the more the better,” she said, pulling a glove off and removing a diamond ring from her finger. “This is my engagement ring. Show it to my parents and explain what happened. They will let you in.” She handed it to Finn and blew out a weary breath, fluttering a loose ribbon of chocolate-colored hair. “I’ll call them before you get there, but if the phones go down before I get the chance…”

  “So, I’m free to go? Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Mac replied, pulling the glove back on. “Listen to me, don’t go home. Don’t try to be a hero, heroes die. Get on the interstate and don’t stop until you reach the exit.” She pulled an iPhone from her black slacks and handed it to him. “Here’s your phone back. It’s charged and loaded with my number. I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Just come with us now.”

  “I can’t leave my brothers and sisters hanging out there. Plus, I have to get Jake, my fiancé, before I go anywhere.” She let a set of car keys dangle from her leather fingertips. “My truck is parked next to my cruiser out back. The tank is nearly full. There’s also a full gas can in the back.”

  Hesitantly, Finn took the keys, trading a worrisome look with his wife.

  “This is insane,” Miranda admitted, adjusting the gun riding the hip of her designer jeans. In her black tank top, she suddenly looked more like Sarah Conner from T2 than the carefree woman he married two years ago.

  Finn sighed. The thought of losing her to one of those things out there tore him to pieces. “Maybe we should just stay here,” he suggested. “I mean, it’s a police station.”

  “If this town gets overrun, this police station will become your tomb.” Mac took a glove off and dug her phone out. “This is as far as we can help each other in the city,” she said, tapping at the cellphone. “But we can help each other again.” Finn’s phone chimed and vibrated in his pocket. “That’s the address to the trailer. Memorize the directions before the phones go down.” On cue, the lights flickered, pulling their eyes to the buzzing fluorescents above. “That’s not good,” she muttered, pocketing her phone.

  “Mac!” a gruff voice called out from down the hallway. Footsteps thundered closer and Jason filled the doorway, tightening his belt like he just came out of the bathroom. “You ready?”

  She turned to him, face tight with tension. “Ready,” she answered, handing him the last M16 left in the room.

  Taking it, the tall, burly cop nodded at Finn. “You gave him his shotgun back?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she said, throwing on a bulletproof vest. “He’s on our side now, Jason.”

  Frowning, he shifted in his stance. “How do we know that?”

  Mac tightened the fight strap with a hard yank. “Because he’s still breathing,” she replied, handing him the duffel bag. Crossing the room, she grabbed a Colt M4 Carbine from an empty rack before leading them out a backdoor. Stepping out into the warm night, the sound of locusts and sirens filled the air, peppered by sporadic gunfire, some shots closer than others.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jason muttered, sliding the bag in the squad car’s backseat. “It sounds like World War III out there.”

  Mac stared over the car’s roof at Miranda and Finn. “Remember what I said and with any luck, I won’t see you soon. Because if I do, it means we lost the town.”

  “Let’s roll out, Mac!” Jason pounded t
he roof and squeezed his large frame in the passenger seat, positioning the M16 between his legs.

  “Good luck, guys,” she said glumly, passing Jason the M4 Carbine. “And whatever you do, don’t get bit.” She climbed in and slammed the door shut, starting the powerful engine.

  Finn and Miranda watched their taillights fade into the night and, just like that, they were alone in a new world. Adrift in unchartered waters. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, turning to the brown truck parked behind them and wrinkling his brow. Other than a sun-bleached golf cart across the way, the lot was completely deserted. “I can’t believe we have to escape the zompac in a Ford Bronco II,” he groaned, swinging the spare tire out of the way and opening the tailgate. “This just gets better and better.”

  “We have to stop at the house.”

  Freezing in place, he turned to the distant sound of his wife’s voice. “Did you not hear what she just said?”

  “Finn, I’m wearing high heels.”

  Looking down at her feet, he cursed the dreadful timing. He was wearing dress shoes himself and why couldn’t this have happened when they had gym clothes on? He sighed, lowering his shoulders. “There’s never a good time for the apocalypse,” he breathed out, tossing the bag of ammo in the back and wedging the shotgun between it and the gas can.

  “We could grab your truck while we’re there,” Miranda said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “We have guns now, Finn.”

  Slamming the tailgate shut, he swung the spare tire back into place with a metallic click. He planted his hands on his hips and stared out across the roadway, letting the wind run through his hair. A gunshot rang out nearby and a bad feeling washed over him like a cold black wind. The street lights were still working, but for how long? When the roads went dark, panic would clog the intersections like cholesterol to an artery. Looting and murder would become the last resort for the unprepared. Exhaling a longwinded breath, he dug the keys from a pocket and wrapped them in a tight fist. The worry filling his wife’s eyes squeezed on his heart, forcing him to turn away and open the car door. “Get in.”