by M. D. Massey
I retrieve my arrows, ignoring the chunks clinging to them. I flick the arrows towards the ground, the excess gore splashing the grass. The guy’s skull comes right off. I’ll need to burn the corpses. It’ll only attract more. I need to get to the bunker. This puts a chink in my busy schedule. Right.
A loud chattering makes me twist in surprise. A mouth snarls and I’m thrown to the ground on my back. With my crossbow out of reach, teeth snap as I hold the zombie by the neck. I kick, throwing the zombie over my shoulder with only adrenaline to energize me. It lands behind me with a smack. I jump up, grabbing the machete and run a little distance. The zombie landed on top of the other corpse. Satisfaction makes me smirk as it scrambles, slipping around. It moves fast, much too fast for a zombie. The smirk slips from my face as I stand in a stunned stupor. If it hadn’t attacked me in a frenzy, I would say it’s human.
The thing catches sight of me and charges. I shake myself into action, swiping my blade at its throat. It gurgles and I stick my booted foot out to trip it. I hack him before he can get up. It takes a few well-placed chops, but his head comes off.
Breathing heavily, I scan my surroundings and note it’s safe to grab my stuff and leave before any more can make their way here. Jumping over my fence, I’m shaken to the core that zombies got the drop on me. I blame Jack and my need to forget. I also try, unsuccessfully, to skirt around the fact I don’t know everything there is to know about the living dead.
My mishap reminds me of the last time I figured something new about zombies and my last close call with death. Six months after the outbreak, I found a neighbor hiding while rummaging the neighborhood. We stuck together. At the time, zombies were new, well fed, and strong. I dealt with them almost every day. Their food source was down in the cities, and they roamed rural areas looking for animals. It’d also been a while since coming across any zombies. We felt secure while carrying bricks to finish the bunker when half a dozen zombies attacked us. They never traveled in packs let alone attacked in packs. My neighbor froze in the face of them. I don’t know if he stiffened from surprise or because of the small group. Left to fight for both our lives, I took one out with my crossbow and beat the majority with bricks. It wasn’t easy. By that time, my neighbor grew balls and fought the last one but it did him no good. I advanced and swung a cinderblock, knocking the zombie away from him. My companion stared into space with a seeping bite wound while I smashed the head of the last zombie in.
“You know what I have to do,” I said. Upon him coming to stay with me, we both agreed to show mercy if the other were bitten.
“Yes,” he whispered after a pause. I gave him a few hours. I guess to get right with God. After digging a shallow grave in a wooded area, I shot him with my crossbow at dusk. His name was Jim, and he stayed with me for three weeks.
I maneuver into the “kitchen” area of my bunker, to the big aluminum barrel I use as a tub and sink. The water is cold, but I scrub my face, arms, and hands. I wash my arrows. I’ll scour the tub tomorrow. With the adrenaline wearing off and a fresh set of clothes, I choke down my bland, mushy rice with several gulps of water. It’s not until I crawl under the blankets when I realize sleep will be scarce.
I scrawl an account of what happened in my notebook—a composition pad for any useful information. I don’t know if the zombie attack is a good omen or bad. One thing I know for sure, Jack is no longer my best friend.
Waking without dreaming of faces I once knew and loved as zombies starts my day off right. I get to work siphoning dirty water from the tub through a hose that drains outside. Doing it without getting any in my mouth is a science. I have three hoses. One for dirty water, one for clean water, and the third’s a short hose connected to the basin for speedy cleanups.
After my morning routine, I go for a jog to determine how I attracted the zombies from last night. I always run with my pack, to be sure I can, if it’s ever needed to escape a sticky predicament. I strive for stronger endurance because I never know what will happen or when I’ll need to run, but one thing’s for sure—it’s inevitable.
The sun beams high in an endless blue sky, feeling warmer than yesterday. Clear and crisp. I loved days like these in the old life. The reminder cheers my spirit despite a slight hangover.
Ignoring my recent injury, I accelerate my pace, kick rocks as I go, and avoid cracks in the road. My crossbow and pack flap on my back comfortingly, like a security blanket. Every now and then, the machete taps my injured thigh which isn’t painful today. The double-sided hatchet I added this morning swings on the other side. The wind blows and leaves swirl. Birds chirp as I pound the pavement to the tune of their melodies. It sounds surreal as if the world weren’t full of decomposing apples slowly rotting all the other apples. Breathing in through my nose brings in the dry grass smell mixed with evergreen.
I go on for twice my normal workout time. The endorphins flow and like every time I feel this good, people cross my mind.
Talking to someone would be a welcome change. Hell, just being around someone would be welcome.
Usually this feeling only lasts a little while. I could find people, but surviving great on my own, I always keep to myself.
I double back to dispose of the corpses when a scream and a high-pitched squeal followed by loud moans grab my attention. My great mood evaporates so dramatically I could kill the person who said, “Be careful what you wish for.”
3
I freeze, realizing there is a person—a living, breathing person—getting chased by a zombie. My chest heaves. With the blood rushing through my head, I hear another scream. Willing my breathing to slow, I wait and strain to listen. Screams and groans echo through the deserted neighborhood like an eerie ballad carried by the wind.
I pinpoint the struggles to a wooded area behind a row of houses. The commotion isn’t far from where I buried Jim. I rush between two houses, creeping as fast as I can through the trees.
“Get back,” someone shouts as another person makes a noise of protest.
My boots hit muddy spots, sinking in the damp ground, the earthly smell rising—musty, like dirt and dead leaves with a whiff of evergreen. A feminine screech pushes me faster, but I remain in stealth mode. The brush whips against my bare arms. I haven’t tied my locks back, so they slither around me like snakes.
Finding the source of the noise, I assess the situation. There aren’t two people—there are four. Four people and three zombies, to be exact, in a shaded clearing. The morning sun puts a cheery tint to the autumn coloring on the treetops. The setting does not match the scene. Someone should be enjoying fruit, cheese, and mimosas on a picnic blanket. Instead, a bloated zombie is on top of a kneeling strawberry-blonde, who fights for her life while a man with shaggy, gray-streaked hair tries, unsuccessfully, to grab the zombie’s head and twist.
Another guy, lanky with dark hair, and a skinny blonde fend off their own zombies. The lanky guy holds a huge walking stick, and the girl throws her fists like a wild animal. The feelings coursing through me are unbelievable, throbbing to the tune of my heartbeat. I want to leave them here to their fate. I want to run, hug them, and kiss their mouths. Breathing jaggedly, I feel like someone lit a fuse inside my body. People. The fuse ends and I detonate. I drop my pack, grab the machete and hatchet, and race toward them without another thought.
“Take this,” I shout at the skinny girl throwing punches. She looks to be a few years younger than me. I toss the hatchet and it sticks in the ground at her feet. I spin to the zombie on top of the woman who looks to be in her late thirties. She’s terrified and shivering. The zombie is so bloated, fluids drip from its mouth. Its skin is stretched to a translucent state—so clear, the fluids inside gush around like a filmy cloud. I shove the older man with shaggy hair out of the way as hard I can, having time to notice he is heavy and looking at me in shock.
“Get your head down,” I command the woman. She ducks under her bloody arms. I swing my machete, and the zombie’s head explodes into blood and sti
cky bits. I notice the skinny girl slicing through the air with the hatchet. Fluid and gore from the zombie sprays a fine mist.
The lanky guy has stuck his walking stick through the zombie’s gut. If this zombie was as bloated as the other one, it would have popped like a water balloon filled with pudding. Unfazed by the stick, the zombie is still on target while lanky guy guides him away with the stick. I hurry to cut the zombie’s head off. The guy takes notice and steps out of the way. This beheading is less messy, and I chop at the spinal cord a few times to get the head off, much like the zombie from last night. The skinny girl finishes the other zombie. When I see it still twitching, I raise my boot, and smash its head. The skull gives, but sticks around my boot as if I had my foot deep in rocky mud.
We stand there, staring and panting. I’m busy trying to keep my eye on them and clean off my boot in the thick brush. All of our chests heave though mine heaves from exhilaration.
“Where are your weapons?” I ask, walking backward toward my pack. I don’t want them behind me. It doesn’t escape my notice how they’re looking at me. Their eyes follow the blood and sweat dripping down my stomach. I clench my teeth together and squeeze my fist tight. I’ll be damned if these people, the first people I’ve seen in a little over three years, will make me feel self-conscious.
“We had guns, but we ran out of ammunition when we were ambushed about ten miles back. Zombies’ve been everywhere since,” the man with shaggy hair tells me. He is a weary man with rough hands. Needing a cut, his dark, gray-streaked hair falls into matching dark eyes. A strong, tall build said he could take on anything, but it hadn’t helped him now. A flannel shirt is cut off at the forearms, but drapes over worn jeans covered in old, dried blood. He has a backpack, and his gun’s tucked into his pants. Despite knowing it isn’t loaded, I inwardly cringe away. “We’re heading to a southern government camp. We must be close,” he prods, and eyes my bloody machete.
I stare at him. “Looking for a zombie-free winter? It doesn’t matter where you are, if you’re with a crowd, it draws them.”
“We know….” He looks to the sky almost lost in thought. “The camps give us shelter, food, safety, and human companionship.” Makes sense, but they don’t know how long I’ve been alone without attracting zombies. Would they believe me if I told them?
We reach the tree I left my pack against. Slipping my tank over my sports bra, I get dressed fast because the younger lanky guy stares at me with an expression I don’t want to understand, but I do. It brings on a familiar feeling from the old life. He is good looking, in a best friend’s little brother type way. His dark hair, almost black, has the slightest curl in the back with bangs sweeping over his ice-blue eyes, surrounded by thick, dark lashes. Standing several inches taller than me, he’s holding another stick, looping a thumb in the belt loop of his dark, denim jeans. The fitted shirt, emphasizing his skinniness, stretches as he lifts a shoulder to what Shaggy told me.
I reach for the hatchet. The girl gives it to me handle first. She’s slender—her bones jut out sharply at her elbows and cheekbones. Her low-rise pants and short baby doll tee hint at her protruding pelvic bone. Her short blond hair is dirty and emphasizes her sharp chin. Despite her light hair, her eyebrows are dark. Her eyes are hard and focused on me. I can’t judge. I know I look like a hobo. Like me, she would be attractive if she didn’t exude coldness. I wipe the blood from the weapons and put them in their place. Grasping my loaded crossbow, I point it at the older woman.
Startled, she looks at the ground. She’s adorable and sweet, with blue eyes and a petite nose scattered with freckles. Her eyebrows are lighter than her hair. She has soft curves and tries to hide them with bigger clothing. Her pink jogging suit is covered with blood and dirt.
“So, you were bitten? I couldn’t tell if the blood was zombie blood or yours. I guess it’s both,” I say, keeping my voice calm while glancing between her and Shaggy.
She meets my eyes with panic in her own. “I–” she begins, but Shaggy jumps in front of her and gestures his hand for her to be quiet.
“Whoa, let’s talk this out. She’s got a couple of days at most,” he blurts, peering at the woman. Automatically recognizing a silent exchange when I see one, I look them over, sizing them up a few moments more. They’re dirty from travel and need fresh clothes.
“Well, I guess you can follow me, get cleaned up, tend to her wounds, and rest. I have food, clothes, and some extra weapons you may have. Then, you can be on your way. There is a new government camp in Birmingham.” I’m not only going to keep my eye on the petite woman, but all of them. Their demeanor and body language tell me they know each other well.
“Birmingham? What about Clarksville? How close are we to there?” This was the first time best friend’s little brother spoke.
I glance at him. “Broadcasts stopped coming from there a long time ago. You can always go there if you want. I believe it was infiltrated and would be a waste of time.”
He appears upset to hear this. As I watch, the girl puts her arm around him, whispering. He looks at her, shaking his head in a practiced motion to get the hair out of his eyes.
“We’ll figure it out, Kale,” Shaggy says. “Let’s rest for now.”
I’m leading them out of the wooded area when I hear a twig snap and pounding feet. A zombie races toward us as I spin around. It seems almost human, except for its blue bloody lips and clammy skin. Dark-purplish eyes are full of settled blood.
I point my crossbow and shoot the zombie in the middle of its forehead. It sticks right in the front, only slowing it down. It’s also right between Shaggy and Kale. The girl yelps. Sliding the hatchet from my pack loop, I tomahawk toss it. It hits the arrow, jamming it in, and the zombie collapses to the ground with a heavy thump. Blood seeps from a recent bite wound and stains its dirty shirt. It hasn’t even taken a bite out of someone yet, it’s so newly transformed.
I blink and swallow a lump—the zombie had been running full on. I understand the arrow getting stuck since the pistol crossbow is only meant for small game, but like the zombie last night, the damn thing moved with amazing speed. This shakes me more than I care to contemplate or admit.
What’s even worse, no one seems surprised but me. Trying to cover my reaction, I brace my boot on its forehead, yanking and jerking the shaft to get my arrow out. The hatchet buried the arrow to the fletching. When it comes out, I feel something gooey splat on my hand and I jump.
“Shit!” I shake off the gore like it’s the black plague. It is some kind of plague. Shaggy steps forward, about to say something, but I hold my finger to my lips. We walk the rest of the way in silence. Well, I’m silent. These people wouldn’t know stealth if it bit them on the ass. Their movements seem to pound through my head. No wonder the living dead attacked them.
I can’t help but want these people gone. They’re a superfluous burden dropped onto my shoulders for their convenience. Not to mention, they brought strange, unfamiliar zombies with them. They’re weak, and I don’t want to care for them. They’ve relied on others through this whole ordeal, and if they stay, they will rely on me.
Tears sting my eyes. Clenching my jaw, I blink them away and stare forward. I don’t know their story. They’re weaponless because they used them to survive. Why am I faulting them and calling them weak?
I lead them through my gate, then shut and lock it behind us. My backyard is about a half-acre surrounded by a privacy fence. Our black lab, Sputnik, once ran this space. He died before the outbreak. I still miss him. Sometimes I picture him running after a tennis ball, his tongue lolling out of his jowls.
Pumping water into the basin, I say, “Wait until I get water into my bunker, then you can use this short hose to clean off. Just try not to get blood in the basin. Does anyone else have any injuries besides…?”
“Nadine, my name is Nadine,” the soon to be undead, strawberry blonde tells me. I don’t want to know their names. I want them gone by morning.
But hells bells, I
don’t want to be rude either. “I’m Kan,” I tell them.
“Thank you for your help, Kan,” Nadine says. I feel a tight smile on my lips. At that, their demeanor toward me changes. I’m someone who would kill their friend, but someone who’s surviving. They are happy to see me, and I wish I could feel the same. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I have a slight feeling helping them was a mistake.
The older guy offers me his hand, and I take it as he introduces himself, “Harley.”
I look at the skinny girl. She glances around with a pinched mouth. “Bridget.”
I don’t know what to think of her. She seems stubborn rather than reserved, and the way she fought the zombie did not come from a reserved person. I can’t say anything since I haven’t said much either. Something stronger lies beneath the surface.
Kale sticks out his hand. I grab it harder than necessary. “Kale, I heard him call you Kale. Like the lettuce?”
He smiles, grateful I remembered. “Yup, like the lettuce.” No matter how I feel, it is refreshing to see people, and seeing them smile makes my chest lighten.
I get to business. “We should get cleaned up. I can make us something to eat.” I look at Nadine. “After you wash up, I have bandages for your injury.”
I show them how to use the pump and how to siphon through the short hose. “I have a long hose going into my bunker I use for cooking and cleaning,” I explain, plucking towels from a laundry line, handing one to each of them.
“We’ll clean whatever we use,” Harley says. “Is everyone else out hunting?” He peers toward the house as if I couldn’t possibly be by myself. Picking at my cuticle, I don’t know if I can trust them. People are strange, stranger still since the outbreak. All I have is my gut instinct which is telling me something seems different about them.