by M. D. Massey
If he’d said this yesterday, I would’ve done something about it. Like Harley, Kale underestimated me. “You should’ve told me. You didn’t.”
“They could’ve killed us. I’m sorry, but we need to hurry.” His statement saddens me. I hand my crossbow to him by the grip.
“Go to Birmingham, Kale. You need to get away from them, but you can’t come with me. I don’t trust you.” I shoot him a look to let him know I’m serious, and for some reason, I wish he’d smile. He gulps. I roll up my window and drive away.
8
Steaming with anger, I pull over to a gas station to pace and think, not knowing why I’m so reluctant to leave. I didn’t forget anything. I hope Kale makes it to Birmingham even though I don’t feel sorry for stranding him. After everything, I was beginning to trust him, even if only a little, but he betrayed that trust. He omitted telling me the truth. If he liked me, he could’ve warned me. He didn’t, and there’s nothing to do about it. There’s nothing I want to do about it.
I’m ready to travel and not be isolated. The past couple of days are proof of that. Not willing to do that to myself any longer, I know I’ll fight with the best of them. I don’t know if I want to find people or head straight to Clarksville. But. Leaving is not an option when there’s unfinished business.
Still pacing, I watch the sky for signs of a storm. It’s overcast, fitting my mood well. I won’t let them live in my parents’ house. My memories are there. Having a plan and revenge to keep me company, I wait until dusk. The wind blows, but not too hard. I don’t think it will rain. Good.
I park about a half-mile from my neighborhood near the little Toyota I ditched less than a week ago. I don’t want anyone to see from the upstairs window if they’re watching. I’m assuming they think since I have a vehicle, I won’t come back. I giggle to myself, sounding a little manic, and hope they’re nursing bad headaches. The thought gives me satisfaction. After grabbing my extra pistol crossbow, I trudge through the fields instead of taking the road. In the neighborhood, I slink between privacy fences for cover and wonder if Kale stayed around. No time to think about it though.
When I approach my neighbor’s house, I stop to listen. Twilight lights the sky. Peeking around the corner, I can’t distinguish anyone in the window and chance it. I dart to the fence bordering my yard and head south, following the trench of the ventilation system. Smoke rises from the end. Amateurs. The first night and they’re making mistakes. I remove my t-shirt, leaving me in my sports bra, and shove it into the release hole. This is only a distraction. The smoke has nowhere to go, so it will fill the bunker.
I dash toward my family’s house and sneak around to the garage. The door is still open from my escape. Going in, a commotion underneath hums through the floor, confirming they’re below. I tiptoe into the master bedroom. Removing the two bottles of tequila from my pack, I pour half on the bed. It takes a minute for the tequila to chug out. Lighting it with a lighter, it goes up in flames. I watch to make sure it still catches after the alcohol burns off and open the window so the air will feed the fire. Dry things, like my parents’ oak furniture that hasn’t been polished in four years, will feed the flames, too.
I dump the other half of the alcohol on the couch in the living room. I light it and move on to my bedroom. After opening the window, I pour half of the second bottle over the bed and carpet. I’m moving into the kitchen when raised voices roar up outside. They’ve realized the house is on fire. I glance in the living room—the dry furniture caught fire. There’s a pang in my heart, but my dad would be proud I’m doing what I need to.
I soak the counter and floor and pull a rag from my back pocket, setting it aflame. The blaze travels across the counter and drips in little fireballs onto the floor, helping the fire spread. It happens in a split second. Flames lick across the ceiling from the hall and living room, with smoke filling the house. Sweat beads down my abdomen from the heat. I smile, satisfied with the job. The smoke billows thicker. That’s my cue to leave.
I race from the house and pull my crossbow strap over my head so I can carry it by hand. Flames shoot from the window of my bedroom. Imagining my white-washed bed burning and black with char, I inhale the smoke. Yelling and shouting commences in the backyard. Feeling elated, I race around the privacy fences. It’s dark, and I’m worried about the living dead. The fire will attract them more than any noise I make. I bump into something, and it grabs me. “Ah, shit!” I stumble, aiming my crossbow.
“Kan?”
“Yo,” I say, relieved but wary to see Bridget and not a zombie.
I’m trying to calm my breathing, when her fist flashes. Pain erupts from my cheek.
“You bitch! Where’s Kale?” she demands.
That must be her favorite question. I rub my cheekbone where she sucker-punched me. It shouldn’t bruise because it doesn’t hurt much. I study her through the darkness. From my view, she looks insane, as if she’s related to Leatherface.
“How the hell should I know? He was on the floor when I left,” I lie.
“You have him! You set the house on fire!” I pistol-whip her with the grip of my crossbow. She drops to the ground.
“I hope the zombies don’t get you,” I say to her unconscious body as I kick her to make sure she’s out, wishing she could have heard my sarcasm. Being knocked out twice in one day has to suck. I freeze and listen. Dead quiet, not even the sound of the house fire.
This time I move more cautiously, stopping, looking, and listening every few yards. An opening comes up, and I make a run for it, my legs setting a fantastic pace. My endurance running is paying off. Spotting Rhonda, I slow my pace to a jog. Making sure no one is around, living or not, I climb into the driver’s seat. I sit for a moment to calm myself. Blood pounds in my ears. Lingering smoke and tequila fill my nostrils as adrenaline courses through my veins. My lips curl into a smile. The only thing that would make tonight more perfect is if I had killed zombies.
Driving through the deserted town, there are subtle signs of outbreak. Not much different from my neighborhood. Gas stations are packed with wrecked cars. Broken glass glitters on the concrete. Scorch marks from burning bodies of the living dead scar the sidewalks. Overgrown trees have made their way into power lines, no longer trimmed by city workers. The heaviness will eventually cause them to fall to the ground. The poles will break like toothpicks into the roads. The median landscaping drapes the cracked streets.
I hit the interstate at a breakneck speed. As the adrenaline wears down, so does my body, and my situation hits me hard. What am I doing? I burnt down my house. If I had real guts, I would’ve shot them all, even Kale, but no, I had to make a dramatic exit and burn everything I know and love to the ground, leaving them alive.
After driving about twenty miles, a rumble rises from the pit of my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day and thinking about what I’ve done brings on the shakes. I shouldn’t be hard on myself, I made the conscious decision to leave—it came earlier than expected.
Stopping on the side of the interstate in complete darkness, I dig through a box for a can of something and a can opener. I suck down the metallic-flavored creamed corn, feeling better and thinking clearer. Just in case Rhonda the Honda has alerted any nearby zombies, I need to keep moving.
My eyes get heavy and I drift. Turning on the iPod, I blast music to keep me awake. Rain splatters the windshield, and soon it is pouring, complete with thunder and lightning. Before I get too close to the big city, I veer off the interstate to find a semi-secluded spot by an old department store. Hoping the storm hides the sound and warmth of the SUV, I climb in the back and sleep.
When I wake, I can barely see the dawn’s light because old, rotting zombies surround me.
9
I usually get excited about zombies, loving the chance to get up close and check them out, then do my duty and kill them. Looking out the window, I can’t see how many there are. Rhonda rocks from the sheer mass, but all they can do is push. Since they’re old, lea
ving this situation should be a piece of cake. As long as I don’t get out of the car, I'll be fine.
I climb to the driver’s seat and start the engine, sending the zombies into a frenzy of jerky and unstable movement. I resist the urge to study them as if I’m in a biology class. With the gearshift in drive, I punch the gas. Several zombies are piled like a cheerleader pyramid on the front hood, and I can’t see through the windshield. The initial launch dislodges a couple of them, and Rhonda thrusts up and down from running over a few.
I hold the steering wheel straight and pick up speed. There is a street ahead somewhere. Looking for the road, the car bumps in the front, hitting a curb. Jostling me in the seat, I relish this joyride, and my lips stretch into a wide grin. I yank the wheel to the left. Rhonda lurches where I want her to go without flipping over, and more zombies tumble off to the right. Blood sprays as old zombies splat on the pavement like gory water balloons.
Two zombies still hold tight to the hood, their fingers in the space between the hood and windshield. A mouth bites at the glass in front of me. It’s lost a few fingers from trying to hold on somewhere along the way. I gain more speed before slamming on the brakes, dislodging it. Its remaining fingers rip off, and it slides feet first to the ground. The other zombie hangs on, creeping toward my side. I reverse and hit the gas without looking back. Rhonda shoots backward in response. I feel rather than hear several meaty thuds as she knocks zombies away. I smash the brakes again. I can see enough to get out and fight them. It’s not worth the risk of crashing into a tree.
Just as I aim my crossbow at the zombie as an arrow comes from nowhere and goes straight through its head. It explodes into chunky pieces. I blink to make sure I didn’t conjure the scene in my mind. Nope, brains still decorate my windshield. I peer through the window even though the arrow came from the other direction. Zombies litter the ground. Some have arrows through their skulls. I should leave, but I want to see who shot the arrows.
The first thing I notice upon getting out of Rhonda is the rancidity. The strong stink of decay hits my nose and the back of my throat. The blood and bits all over the car make it worse. It’s like the smell of the two old zombies from my ventilation system, but a hundred times worse. Unsavory bile from my stomach helps mask the taste. The smell is overpowering. My face scrunches and my mouth waters along with my swirling stomach.
I’m still battling the nausea when more flying arrows grab my attention, shooting the approaching zombies. The archer is well hidden. I lift my crossbow and kill a zombie, and the larger arrows subside. My arrows are much smaller than these, which are meant for serious big game hunting. The larger arrows are always harder for me to aim and still hit a target. Though they are much better for long distance shooting, I still stick with my pistol crossbow.
After the zombies are down, I retrieve my arrows from the rotting flesh. The bow hunter is doing the same thing. I freeze and stare. Dawn is near, so I see him. He can’t be mistaken for anything but a man.
He steps on a zombie head with black leather boots under frayed jeans as he jerks an arrow from a skull. He wags away gooey bits.
I can’t see his face, but he is tall, much taller than me with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair tied back with a dark green bandana. A compound bow is strapped to his back and a quiver hangs by his side. The hunting bow goes from his knees to a few inches above his head. It’s the biggest bow I’ve seen, making me think it is custom made. The wind blows in the other direction, and his hair whips across his face.
This guy is locked, stocked, and loaded with a big gun tucked into the front of his jeans. When he spots me, I feel like a deer in headlights, but only for a moment. Harley’s words echo through my head, those thick and meaty thighs. The world isn’t what it used to be. And I won’t be taken for a fool again. I escape his gaze. Knowing this guy is helping me, but not caring to know his motivation, I hop into the SUV and hit the gas. The wheels get caught in sticky blood, but catch the traction I need for a hasty U-turn.
I bound down the road, peering into the rearview mirror. The last thing I see is morning sun glinting off suntanned shoulders and boot treads running in the opposite direction.
10
I’m cruising the highway. The state of Tennessee took care of its interstates, and the roads still offer a smooth black surface with fading white lines. The terrain dips with hills and valleys. In eastern Tennessee, mountains dominate the landscape, but here, an evergreen variety of trees line both sides of the road with a few maple trees scattered about. I pass a barn with “See Rock City” painted on the side. You can’t see the oncoming traffic because of the wooded expanse that runs through the middle. About forty minutes into the ride, cars on the highway pile along the shoulder. I notice no piled cars going the other direction, as if survivors wanted into the city, but weren’t leaving. In my experience with the outbreak, the more people who died in one place, the more zombies you found. If I run into some, I hope they’ll be old and slow. Luckily, I haven’t encountered any of the wicked hungry ones Kale spoke of.
The sun shines, and a flock of buzzards catch my attention. I pull into a grassy thicket next to a wooded area beyond the right shoulder of the highway. I eye the pile of vehicles on the shoulder for any movement and sniff to check for a trace of decay in the air—nothing but fresh air and spruce.
The buzzards screech as I approach the edge of the wooded area. They circle and dive. A dull groan cuts through the air. A bird dives at the sound, and when the wind blows I smell the zombie before I see it in the thick grass. It’s incapacitated and its attention is directed at the birds. Its arms flail around. It’s been trying to crawl into the woods, away from the sun. Another bird lands a few feet away, but when the zombie moves it flies away.
“They’re confused.” My voice draws the attention of the zombie, and it moves its arms toward me. I’m surprised there aren’t any wounds from birds pecking at it. Surely there would be, stinking like it does.
The buzzards wait for it to die, not knowing it’s dead. By the number of them, they’ve been waiting a long time.
Back at the Honda, I slip on my pack and grab my crossbow. A familiar nagging pulls at me as I tread to the zombie. Sometimes, I feel as if there is more to zombies than meets the eye.
When I sit about five feet from the zombie, the vacant eyes stare at me. Its arms try to pull it forward. I ignore the moans erupting from its mouth. Who was this person? I’m not big on spirituality these days, but the person is no longer in there. One would hope, but what if the person is still there somehow? Knowingly decomposing in their own bodies, never able to satisfy an insatiable hunger? I shudder at my own questions and, just in case, I show it mercy and put an arrow through its head.
I have no idea how long I sit and stare, watching as the buzzards fight for their newest food source, but when I stand, the sun is more west. It gleams off windshields and emphasizes the rusting vehicles amassed together casting shadows on the highway. I edge toward the woods on a spur-of-the-moment decision, perking as the sun streaks through the trees, making them glow. A distinct trickling alerts me to running water.
Coming upon the small creek, it is music to my ears. I look to make sure I’m alone and strip off my clothes for a dip. I take a few small toiletries from the pack and wash the best I can. The water is cool for this time of year and a refreshing change from the pond. I take my time, massaging my scalp. I learned a long time ago shampooing all the time will dry my locks out and make my scalp itch. I put on jeans, staying in only my sports bra to soak up sun across the grassy bank.
I’m getting closer to Clarksville, and I need a plan. It’s unlikely I’ll go in arrows flying without knowing what’s truly going on. I sigh, realizing I can, in fact, do that. I have nothing left to lose. My best bet would be to drive to the base. Zombies be damned.
I run my hand through the creek. A twig snaps and a snarl breaks me from my daze. I leap up with my pack in hand, all in one swoop. Ice sweeps through my body as fresh zom
bies careen toward me. They move like normal people, without jerky or slow movements. Unlike normal people, their skin’s pale blue. Their mouths hang open with bloody drool. Wounds crusted with blood showcase their injuries. I grip my crossbow, knowing it’s useless on these zombies. They’re frightening.
I dash in panic in the opposite direction, thundering through the trees as they crash and growl behind me. The machete on my pack slaps my thigh, and my dreadlocks hop from shoulder to shoulder. The tall undergrowth whips at my arms and face. With every bound and spring through bushes and wood debris, hurtling smashes of the running dead follow their roars of frustration, cutting me deep. It’s bone chilling. Every small hair on my body stands on end as fear rushes through me. The rough brush makes them slow, but it slows me down, too. I push on, not giving up momentum.
Breaking through the trees, I take a precious second to find Rhonda. I’ve come out too far ahead. The SUV sits about thirty yards down. If I run down the tree line, zombies will pop out like jack-in-the-boxes. I run in that direction, anyway. The movement in my peripheral vision causes alarm. I hurtle myself to the driver’s side of the vehicle to yank the door open, slipping on wet grass and catching myself by holding tight to the handle. Jumping in, I slam the door as several zombies hit the window.
On the passenger side, one of them opens the door. “Fuck!” I aim the crossbow and shoot him in the forehead. At close range the arrow goes straight through, splattering gunk on the inside window and door. It goes limp as I start the vehicle. He falls backward, blocking the others as I mash the gas and Rhonda lurches forward. The momentum slams the passenger door shut. Wiping cold sweat off my forehead, I sigh through my heavy breathing. That was close.
By this time, the zombies crawl, claw, and mewl all over the SUV. I drive through some shallow ditches. When I hit a deep trench, the car bounces up and down. A mechanism in my seat breaks. I slide backward and forward. Without the seat belt I bounce in the seat awkwardly because of my pack. I laugh as the adrenaline makes me high. A clearing is visible through the trees, and I make for it, swerving and veering under thick branches, laughing all the way because it shakes zombies from Rhonda as if I’m in my own version of a video game.