Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  A sound . . . Inside or outside? Could a creeper come in through the broken window? Had she just done something terribly stupid after planning this for so long? Clutching the bat, she snuck to the front door. No creepers. Quickly, she slid the mahogany entryway table in front of the broken window. “Duh.” She grimaced and locked the front door. Although, she didn’t think creepers had the common sense it took to open a door.

  Next, she checked the kitchen faucet for water. The water in her unit was bone-dry, but if she was lucky, there might be water left in the hot water tank. The faucet sputtered and faltered then the water poured out. “Yes!” She grabbed the water bottles and thermoses from the cupboards and filled them.

  She thoroughly searched every room, closet, and drawer for anything that might be of use. No luck with a gun, but she did find a lovely set of pink and red rose playing cards edged in gold. The small find was a delight. She’d been bored out of her mind these past few weeks. Solitaire would be a great way to pass the time. The hallway’s dusty bookshelf of paperbacks caught her attention; unfortunately, they were horror type novels. No thank you. She already felt like a doomed character forever trapped in the eerie prose of a Stephen King novel.

  Scarlett lugged the bags of goodies to the front door and then went back upstairs. She sat on the balcony and nervously munched on a granola bar and guzzled a warm Red Bull while surveying the field behind the townhouses. It was midmorning, and the creepers ambled about the field. They hadn’t formed into packs yet, a good sign they hadn’t heard, sensed, or smelled her.

  She couldn’t put off her return trips any longer. Still, the anxiety of opening the front door and running into a pack of creepers gave her the heebie-jeebies. The glass-less window’s shimmery-golden curtain swayed in the breeze. Wind was not a good thing. Wind meant they could sniff her out. Taking a deep breath, she opened the front door a crack, and to her relief, there wasn’t a pack of creepers awaiting her on the front porch. She did spot a creeper in the parking lot a few yards away, so she hunched behind a realtor FOR SALE sign until it rambled down to the next row of townhomes. Not too bad, she thought. I can do this!

  Only two bags to go. She grabbed the paper handles of the two stuffed bags, relieved it was the last trip. She stood on the front porch. Oh shit, more creepers than the last trip. And they were in “alert mode.” Instead of their usual dawdling about, a six-pack of creepers paused in the parking lot adjacent to the building and gazed at the sky. Based on her limited behavioral study, that meant they were aware of a food source. Was it her or someone’s hapless pet?

  A scuffling sound. Scarlett’s heart stopped. Was it on the sidewalk? She ducked behind a black Webber barbecue grill on the porch, praying she blended into its shadow as the rising sun’s light gleamed between the buildings. She didn’t chance setting down the bags. The rustling paper would give her away. So, she knelt there, two heavy bags in her hands. Are you flippin’ kidding me? In her haste, she’d left the bat leaning against the front door. She would just have to wait them out.

  A repulsive odor wafted by. She stifled her gag reflex and remained veiled in shadow. No! The pack ambled down the sidewalk only a couple of yards away. Evidently, her scent was in the air. Their ghastly heads reeled upwards, feverishly sniffing at the air. Searching for her?

  They hadn’t spotted her—yet. Should I make a run for it? As long as she remained hidden . . . One of the paper bags ripped. The items tumbled onto the porch. Scarlett stared in disbelief as a glass jar of pasta sauce landed on a bag of basmati rice, and then rolled down the porch, down the cemented walkway, across the sidewalk, and off the curb. From the sound of it, the jar shattered when it hit something metal: the metal storm drain. The sound was deafening.

  Paralysis took over when the six creepers gawked in her direction. They jerked their wobbly heads from side to side, then down at the gutter. They ogled the broken jar like it was an alien from another planet. Their disgusting gurgling-gargling groans made her want to run down the street screaming for help. But, she forced herself to remain motionless. Then, for some unknown reason, the small pack lumbered toward the next row of townhomes. Scarlett ran to the Katovich townhome. Had she just been saved by a flipping jar of pasta sauce? She couldn’t help but wonder if the aroma of the “Newman’s Own Fire Roasted Tomato and Garlic Pasta Sauce” had masked her scent.

  That week Scarlett raided several homes. She found breaking into the townhomes terrifying and yet exhilarating—a crime she would have gone to prison for a few months ago. She felt awful about it, but it was a necessity if she was going to survive until help came. What would her sister think of her new way of life? Was Cyndi alive? She should probably go to Pinole to find out. She contemplated the idea unable to decide. Was it procrastination or fear of the unknown?

  Meanwhile, it was time to become familiar with the rifle. She had shot a rifle before, just for fun. Kevin had taken her to a shooting range last summer. She rather enjoyed target shooting, probably because she was a great shot, better than Kevin, and that was probably why he’d only taken her to the range once. According to the attendant, Scarlett was a natural due to her perfect aiming eye.

  The obvious problem—gunshots made an awful amount of noise. And noise meant more creepers. She vowed to practice every day after her morning scavenging hunt. Surely, they wouldn’t find her if she only let off three or four shots while remaining hidden on the balcony like a sniper. The idea intrigued her immensely.

  9

  “Holy Mother of God!” Dean Wormer braced himself, slamming the brakes on the oversized Dodge Ram truck. He forced the truck into a sharp right turn and squealed around the corner onto Davis Street. He finally located the source of sporadic gunshots. A mob of dead-heads swarmed an RV like a monstrous anthill quivering with ants; only they weren’t ants. And, stranded on top of the collapsing RV was some sucker, looked like a kid, shooting wildly into the hungry mob.

  Dean only had time to react, not think. He pounded the horn. “Jump!” Dean bellowed. The kid only has a few seconds before that RV crumples like tin foil.

  The kid had a wild expression of “What the hell” on his face. He must have caught on to Dean’s plan, for the kid took as many strides as the RV’s roof allowed and jumped. He slammed into the back of the truck just as Dean drove by a second time, daringly close to the swarming dead-heads. He glanced back to make sure the boy had made it all right. He turned back to the road as the truck plowed over several dead-heads.

  “Haha,” Dean shouted. “Sorry, folks, lunch will not be served on the RV this afternoon.” He anxiously inspected the road ahead for a safe place to pull over to check on the kid. Because the roads were often jam-packed with deserted vehicles, he had learned to be extremely cautious. Dead-heads had a sneaky way of hiding behind things, especially around vehicles. Just when he’d thought it was safe, one of those ugly things tended to pop up right beside him. He swerved into an empty parking lot, Mallard’s Upholstery. He hurried out to check on the kid, hoping he hadn’t broken his neck in that madcap jump.

  “Dude, you’re like a superhero . . . that was like, so amazeballs! Thought they were going to eat my brains,” the Asian kid ranted on and on, waving his arms while blood spurted from his lower lip. “Dude, you’re like . . . uh,” he paused. “Ram Man,” the kid blurted. “Dude, that’s it! You’re Ram Man.”

  The kid must be in shock. Hell, I’d be. “Hate to disappoint you, son. For the record, my name’s not ‘Ram Man’ or ‘Dude’ for that matter.” Dean couldn’t help but chortle to himself after saying, Ram Man.

  “Let me introduce myself,” Dean said, extending his right hand. “Dean Wormer here, at your service.” The two shook hands. “Break any bones?”

  “I’m awesome,” the kid replied. He shook his limbs and did a funky spinning dance as if to confirm he was in good shape.

  “I see. How in blazes did you get yourself in such a pickle?” Dean asked in astonishment. “Dern near fifty of ’em.”

  “Ye-ah,
that. I sorta thought I was the only person left on the planet and decided to de-activate as many as I could. Before, you know—I turned into one of them,” he said sheepishly as if aware of how idiotic he’d been. “Isn’t this a cool gun?” The boy waved around a tiny .22 pistol.

  “You call that a gun? Why that’s nothing but a palm pistol. A 22 will wind up gettin’ you into more trouble than you started off with.” What was the kid thinking? The gun was damn near useless except at point-blank range.

  “So, like, you just happened to be driving around the neighborhood when you found me?” The kid quickly changed the subject.

  “Heard some fool playing with a pop gun. Figured someone was either in a heap of trouble or just plain stupid.” Dean stole a glance at the kid to see his reaction. “In your case, it was both.” And they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Hell’s bells,” Dean cursed. “Hop in. Left my two men a few streets down when I heard your gunshots.” Dean scrambled into the driver’s seat of the brand-spanking new Ram truck. He took off with a squeal.

  “Sweeet Ride,” the boy drawled, blood still dripping from his lower lip. “Is it yours?” He sounded more impressed with the truck than with his rescue.

  “Now it is.” Dean smiled and patted the dashboard proudly. “Look in the glove compartment. Should be a first-aid kit in there. You need to stop the bleeding.” Dean realized he sounded too much like a concerned father.

  “Dude, are you like abducting me or something?” the kid’s voice faltered.

  “Oh, hell no. Nothing like that. Need to catch up with my men. After we finish up, I’ll be happy to drop you off—wherever,” Dean said. “So, what’s your name, boy?”

  “Dude, it’s not ‘boy.’ I’m Justin Chen. I’m twenty years old as of this month!”

  Dean hadn’t meant to insult the kid. “Hard to tell with that thing over your head. How do I know you’re not one of them?” Dean half-way joked. The truth was, he had difficulty relating to the young generation: the way they dressed and talked, not to mention all that computer mumbo jumbo.

  “It’s a hoodie,” Justin retorted. “Anyway, dude, uh, Dean, that rescue was absolutely cray-cray! Thanks again for saving my sorry ass.”

  Dean wondered if the kid truly realized how incredibly lucky he’d been. “Anytime,” Dean replied, maneuvering the truck around the obstacles in the street. It still astounded him at the number of cars left in the streets. Then again, he knew—only too well.

  It nauseated him to drive the often brownish-red stained roads, for he knew it wasn’t paint. The telltale signs of gruesome battles were everywhere. It wasn’t unusual to come across decaying remains of corpses and detached body parts—damn near as common as discarded plastic water bottles. However, what disgusted him the most, was when he came upon a mound of bones. Licked-clean. Just plain gruesome. He swerved to avoid a baby stroller forgotten in the middle of the road.

  “Shouldn’t have left my team,” Dean grumbled. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knowing Nate and Paxton were going to give him hell when he returned. “Just around the next intersection . . .” He turned onto Hume Way. There it was. “Isn’t she a beauty?” Dean pointed to the semi-trailer truck with COSTO emblazoned on the side in bold-red letters. “Can’t wait to see the booty in that baby.”

  Dean pulled up as Nate and Paxton flaunted their ridiculously drawn-out celebratory bro handshake. However, he was relieved they’d broken into the semi’s trailer rear door so quickly. Dean skillfully backed the truck’s bed a few feet from the trailer’s open rear door, alongside the other two pickups. Dean jumped out of the truck and methodically reconned the area. No signs of any dead-heads. But it was only a matter of time.

  “Where the fuck you been?” Paxton shouted.

  Dean remained calm, taking control. “Clock’s ticking.” He slapped the truck’s hood. “Give me a status update,” he said looking from Paxton to Nate.

  “Busted in!” Nate carried on, jumping around the way he did when he was jacked-up on something.

  “Problem. Scouted a horde heading this way. They probably heard us breaking into the truck,” Paxton replied hastily.

  “How many?” Dean asked.

  “I counted ten,” Paxton said, glaring at Justin while field-stripping a cigarette with his fingertips, one of those things Paxton did to show how tough he was. Paxton hadn’t wasted any time. He’s already trying to intimidate the new kid in town.

  “Justin, do us a favor. Stand on top of my truck’s cab. Need a spotter while we load the trucks,” Dean ordered briskly. “Time to get the show on the road.”

  “Aye, aye captain!” Justin offered a flimsy excuse for a salute.

  Dean had been greatly relieved when he’d found the Costco truck this morning. The problem was, getting everything from point A to point B. At least the young Asian man seemed anxious to help out; Dean couldn’t help but admire the kid’s spunk. “And son, do us all a favor. When they get here, don’t start shooting at them,” Dean ribbed.

  “Ha, ha.” The kid smirked.

  “Nate, Paxton . . . hate to break it to you. We’ve got ourselves a bigger problem. There’s four to five dozen a couple streets down, most likely headin’ this way by now.” Dean climbed into the trailer. “Let’s take what we can and come back later. Justin, see any dead-heads—give us a whistle,” Dean said, already shuffling boxes around. They needed the food! And their three over-sized pickups were just waiting to be loaded.

  “Can’t believe you left us to save some punk,” Nate ragged. “You can’t save everyone.”

  Dean ignored him and tossed a box of Kellogg’s cereal (not bothering to read the variety) into his truck bed. “Just load the damn trucks,” Dean huffed.

  “And, whut if I don’t want to?” Nate rattled off, prancing about like a black flamingo on crank. “Huh, huh, whatcha gonna do about that, you old fart?”

  “Get your shit together,” Paxton yelled to Nate.

  Dean regretted the day he had met up with the two men he nicknamed the “Stockton Boys.” He’d spotted the two men heading east down I-80 and had offered them a home at the hotel, the temporary sanctuary he’d commandeered and modified, providing protection for the two women he had rescued: LuLu and Ella.

  When it came right down to it, Nate and Paxton were not so nice. They definitely had a mean streak in them, and he didn’t exactly approve of their viewpoints where women were concerned either. The Stockton Boys seemed to revel in the chaos and violence required to survive in this mad world. Although usually, the Stockton Boys agreed with his plans without much grief. The two men were adept at siphoning the much-needed gasoline, hot-wiring vehicles, breaking into stores, and apparently semi-tractor trailers as well. Perhaps that’s what had Dean so damn worried. Had he made a grave mistake?

  The trucks were loaded a fourth of the way when Justin frantically jabbered, “Uh, hey, guys? Uh, guys—Guys! They’re here . . .” Justin’s voice trailed off.

  Dean hustled out of the trailer after hearing the panic in Justin’s high-pitched voice. A small mob approached from the northeast, heading straight for them. A dozen or so dead-heads were no problem for the three experienced men if prepared. However, when Justin pointed frantically in the opposite direction, their jaws dropped. The mob from the RV had tracked them down sooner than he’d expected. Yards away, four to five dozen dead-heads furiously flailed along the road. They were coming for Dean and his men. He stifled the fear threatening to immobilize his limbs.

  From what Dean could tell, the semi partially blocked Justin’s view, and no one heard the dead-heads shuffling up the road over the ruckus of loading the pickups. The bastards had snuck up on them. Dean chastised himself. He was usually much more careful on their looting runs. However, as food became more and more scarce, he’d been overly anxious on requisitioning the goods.

  “Fuck me,” someone bellowed

  “WTF?” someone shouted.

  “Go—Go—Go!” Dean yelled.

  Dean ran to
his truck and from out of nowhere a stray pounced from behind the door. He snatched the crowbar leaning against the truck. With one furious swing, the creature was down for the count. He didn’t waste time putting the thing out of its misery. No time for that.

  Dean started his truck and then took off like a bat out of hell with poor Justin still on the cab’s roof. He caught a glimpse of the poor kid tumbling around the back of the truck along with the confiscated Costco cargo.

  “Holy shit!” Justin Chen yelped, bouncing around in the back of the truck with the boxes. He was about to get super pissed at Dean. Then he realized it was way better to be in the truck than not be in the truck.

  Nate and Paxton plowed over the smaller horde. The two men whooped and hollered obscenities at the zombies like mad cowboys herding carnivorous cattle. They peeled out, burnt rubber, slammed the brakes, then raced back to run down the ones they’d missed the first time around. And then they did it again until they pulverized the smaller horde. Justin grunted in disgusted amazement at the gory trail of blood, guts, and bones left behind. “Wouldn’t want to clean up that clusterfuck!” Justin shouted to nobody.

  The two trucks raced past Dean and Justin, avoiding the huge horde, which had already reached the rear of the Costco truck. One of the men yelled, “Last one home has to kiss my bony, black ass—” Must have been Nate.

  Dean swerved and ran over the curb. Justin thought he might bounce out of the truck along with the boxes. They whizzed past a mega-car pile-up of skeletal car shells burnt to a crisp. “Near Miss!” Justin bellowed. These people are cray-cray! Justin wondered what kind of jam he’d gotten into this time as he rode around in the back of Mr. Ram Man’s truck, tumbling around with boxes of Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops somewhere along Orange Drive in Vacaville, California. This has got to be some whacked-out dream. I couldn’t make up shit this crazy.