by M. D. Massey
The dog regained its bearings and started barking at Paul. The commotion alerted the closest hordes of zombies walking down the main street at the intersection. They turned their heads in unison, their white eyes glowing under the streetlight. At least two dozen deadly, deranged undead charged up the street toward them. The dog continued to bark at Paul.
"Come on, idiot," Sasha said.
The dude had saved her life, so she felt a sense of loyalty to him for that. He started to run after her but the dog nipped at his heels, grabbing his cargo shorts and pulling him back down the street. Sasha grabbed his hand and tried to pull him out of the dog's grasp.
"It's okay, boy. It's okay," Paul soothed.
The zombies were gaining on them. Sasha looked down the alley to the ladder that led to the next roof. Another few blocks and she'd be back in her hideout. She pulled harder on the kid, the zombies just a few yards away.
"God dammit, why didn't you listen to me?" she screamed.
She lifted the tire iron and was about to bring it down onto the dog's head when Paul screamed for her to stop. Confused, disoriented and bewildered, her heart racing and pounding in her ears, Sasha dropped the tire iron and ran as fast as her legs would take her. Her tattered old Converse slapped on the pavement as she heard the zombie horde overtake the dog and Paul.
Tears of confusion slid from her eyes as she gripped the first rung of the ladder and hoisted herself up. Climbing frantically, she made it to the roof and peered back at the carnage on the street. She heard the wail of the dog as the first zombie bit into its flesh. Paul screamed for her, shrieking in pain as he was bitten in a dozen places by a dozen zombies. She squeezed her eyes closed and gripped her fist, furious at herself, at him, and the world.
"God dammit."
It wasn’t like she was heartless. She would never kill a dog on purpose. But what was she supposed to do? Risk herself for an animal? This was not the time for sentimentality. It was time to survive. That kid down there just didn't get it. Growing up with his soft, cushy life, with his hipster hat and glasses. He thought that everything was black and white. Easy. That you never had to make tough decisions, and you could always follow your highest moral standards.
"Fuck it," she said, walking away from the gruesome sight.
Her heart was heavy, and a knot formed in her chest. She couldn't stand what had happened or what she had done, but she was alive, and he was dead. It wasn’t like she’d killed him, she kept telling herself as she climbed down the ladder on the other side of the roof. She looked around the alley and found no movement on the street. She’d left her tire iron on the ground for Paul, hoping the idiot would defend himself.
She crossed the alley and skirted down the wall, stepping slowly and silently on her worn-out shoes. She came to the edge of the alley and peered around the corner. The street was full of undead. The whimpers of the dying filled the air. She would have to run the gauntlet to make it across the empty lot to her parking lot.
There was an old strip mall down the block and she could hear zombies banging at the doors from inside, all away from here. A Dairy Mart sat at the other end of the block, the fluorescent lights still flickering in the windows. Her stomach grumbled for food, and she realized she hadn't eaten all day.
Sasha waited for several seconds at the edge of the alley, trying to decide the best tactic to get across the street. Those things seemed to respond to movement and noise — that much she’d discerned from her hours of watching them from the van — but it seemed they also had a sense of smell that alerted them to the presence of live meat. She let out a deep breath and filled her lungs again. Whatever she did, they would probably sense her somehow.
She decided her best bet was to run. Decision made, without another second’s hesitation, she sprinted across the street. The zombies were at least twenty yards away on either side. As she ran through the crowd, they followed. They'd been ambling slowly before, but as soon as they noticed her, they picked up their pace, charging right at her.
She glanced over her shoulder. Seeing several dozen zombies charging at her from either side, she sprinted through the open lot, crunching over weeds and splashing through puddles. The rain from the night before soaked into her shoes and socks, sloshing with each footfall. The zombies were right behind her. She could hear them groaning and the sounds of their feet crunching on the ground. She hurdled over a median and sprinted through the parking lot.
Glancing behind her, she saw the zombies had been stopped by the obstacle. They slowly crawled their way over the three-foot-high median, only deterred by a few seconds. They piled over as she continued to sprint, her stomach muscles crying as a knot formed in her side. She ran faster through the empty parking lot, curving around the corner and up to the second floor. The lot had been condemned last year and was scheduled to be torn down after the spring rains let up.
Squatters had taken over the upper floors. No matter how many times the cops threw them out, they managed come back a few days later. It was the perfect shelter from the Northwest weather, close to downtown and the freeway onramp. Sasha made it to the third floor and dove behind the wall of planks and cardboard that had been built by the squatters. Scrambling into her stall in the darkness, she heard movement in the next stall over. It belonged to an alcoholic bum named Carter.
The groans of the zombies following her echoed against the walls. She searched through her belongings and found her backpack. It was full of necessities, lock-picking tools, extra wire cutters, food and water, dry socks, a flashlight and extra batteries, and a long hunting knife. The rustling in the next stall grew louder as she opened her pack.
"Carter, is that you?" she asked, pulling her hunting knife out of the bag and strapping it to her waist.
Carter groaned on other side of the wall and she peered around the pallets to check on him. A small fire glowed from his stall, casting an eerie shadow behind him as he rocked in his broken lawn chair.
"Boy am I glad to see you, man. But you need to out of here," she said, approaching her old friend.
He tilted his head like a mechanical doll and snapped his teeth at her. Without hesitation she pulled the hunting knife out of her holster and slammed it into his eye socket, screaming at the top of her lungs. In the process, he fell forward and his weight wrenched the knife from her hand. She growled and pulled the knife from his face, wiping the dark blood on his clothes.
"God dammit, Carter," she snapped, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
She shoved the knife back in the holster and ran. The horde of zombies was catching up to her and she was losing her chance for escape. She sprinted down the stairs on the other side of the parking lot as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her.
She closed the door behind her at the bottom of the stairs and walked quietly down a deserted side street through an industrial park. There was very little light in this part of town. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. She came to a warehouse parking lot where a few cars were parked. A Toyota Land Cruiser sat before her, its driver’s side door wide open.
She peered into the brand-new SUV. Chuckling at her luck, she tossed her backpack into the passenger seat, closed the door, and used her tools to hotwire the car. The motor sprang to life with a satisfying roar and the gas tank was almost full. Not believing her luck, she threw the car into drive and started to pull forward out of the parking lot.
Out of the darkness, a zombie threw itself at the hood of her new stolen vehicle. She slammed on the brakes and threw the car into reverse. Turning one hundred eighty degrees, she drove off in the other direction.
"I’m out of here," Sasha said, gripping the wheel of her hotwired Land Cruiser. “Portland is so over.”
14
Neville threw the body in the pit and washed his hands meticulously in the basement sink before proceeding upstairs. He looked out the front window of his suburban home and found creatures just like the girl in his basement, roaming the streets. Something inside
him blossomed with newfound awareness. It was as if he was coming fully alive for the first time.
The human race had been turned into mindless zombies and now he was free to let his base instincts out of the cage they had always been confined to. No more hiding behind the mask. No more living in a world of lies and polite society. He checked his house for weapons. The work he did in the basement required delicacy, but what he needed outside would be far less subtle. He needed guns, knives, machetes, a crossbow. He went to his sports equipment closet and found a metal baseball bat.
He had never been one for guns, preferring to work with scalpels and other such implements of pain, but now, now that the floodgates of terror had opened, he felt as if he had finally arrived. He had never imagined something like this would happen, but now that it had, he felt like a kid on Christmas morning. He took the bat and headed to the front door where one of his neighbors from down the street was pounding mindlessly on the glass. He swung the door open and smashed her head in, and before she could even react to his presence she fell forward, bleeding all over his floor.
He frowned; he hadn’t thought that one through. But what difference did it make? He could take any house in the neighborhood he wanted now. He walked out onto the street and his neighbors ambled about in groups and as solitary monsters. The Sylvesters from the end of the cul-de-sac were both devouring their young children. He smiled at the sight of it. And as he did, his neighbor — Flora Day from two doors down, who always wore tiny short shorts and halter tops — came running toward him.
He did her a favor and bashed her head right in. All he could do was laugh with glee as the zombies approached him, one after another. When Hector Gonzalez, the three-hundred-pound electrician from across the street ran at him it took three smacks with the bat to put him down. Neville threw the ruined bat on the ground, swearing under his breath.
That was as much fun as he could have before restocking his weapons supplies. He didn't have anything else except a few kitchen knives and the things from the basement. His mallet had a short handle, but it would work well enough to get him into town. He returned to the basement and retrieved the mallet before sliding behind the wheel of his nondescript beige sedan.
When he pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall that held the sporting goods store, he found it full of monsters. He resisted the urge to plow them down with his car, knowing there was no way he could take them in this vehicle. He would have to find something else if he wanted to do that. He parked on the sidewalk in front of the sporting goods store and slid out of the front seat.
Neville tried the front door but found it locked. Movement caught his eye. He hefted his mallet and smashed at the reinforced, double pane glass. It took ten hard whacks before it broke. Finally, the glass shattered and fell in heavy shards on the concrete. The noise called attention to him and the zombies ran toward him with renewed vigor. He stepped through the broken glass and stacked clothing racks in front of the door. That should buy him some time. He noticed movement behind him and turned, lifting his mallet, prepared to strike.
"You brought them all to us," said the cashier, crouched behind the front register. The pimply teenager wore an orange smock and his greasy hair was brushed over his left eye like a member of a boyband.
"I need supplies.”
"I'm not supposed to let anybody in before 9 a.m.”
"I don't intend to pay," Neville said, smacking the idiotic young man across the face with is mallet.
He cracked the kid’s skull instantly, wiping the stupid expression off his face as he fell to his knees and onto the ground. He glanced behind him out the broken door. The zombies were gaining ground. He’d have to find a better weapon before the horde made it through his blockade. He went to the back of the store and smashed into the gun case, grabbing a semi-automatic rifle. He’d never shot a rifle before, but he quickly scanned through the instruction manual and got the gist of how it was done. He tucked it against his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The zombies were at the door as he read further down the instructions.
He realized the gun needed to be loaded. He found the correct size magazine, shoved it in the rifle, and clicked off the safety. This time, when he pulled the trigger, a bullet flew. He kept squeezing the trigger. Bullets sprayed indiscriminately toward the zombie horde. His aim was terrible, and the bullets spewed across the sporting goods store, shooting holes in the walls and glass cases.
His gunfire hit the zombies in the shoulders and chests, which did nothing to stop them. The kickback from the rifle was painful against his shoulder, and he braced himself against the far wall as he continued to shoot. The barbarity of a firearm was not his preference, but he’d have to get used to it if he wanted to survive. Half an hour of spraying bullets indiscriminately, he got a better feel of how to control the weapon. He was soon able to hit the zombies in the head with a few shots.
They began to fall, littering the front of the shop with bloody broken bodies. One of them managed to get through the gunfire and charged toward him. He shot it in the chest. A spray of dark blood, ribs and guts, exploded at close range, yet did not stop the beast. Neville picked up his mallet and slammed it into the creature's face. It fell forward as five more entered the store. He grabbed his gun and fired, feeling like a demented Rambo.
Finally, the last of the zombies had fallen and he could take a deep breath. He set the rifle on the counter and began examining his weapons options. He found a pistol with a silencer — which he preferred over the semi-automatic rifle — a long-handled hatchet, and a crossbow. When he’d filled a shopping cart with weapons and ammo, he considered his next move.
He didn't intend to hole up in his house. Not when the world had gone to hell. He was a demon in a world ruled by demons. Walking through the store with a shopping cart, he filled it with everything he would need to survive and thrive in this new and wonderful world. Camping equipment, water filters, outdoor clothing, camping dishes and utensils, a fishing pole. When he was done, he had about $10,000 worth of equipment stacked in his shopping carts. As he headed to the door, a young couple ventured into the shop, looking terrified. When they saw him, their eyes shone with hope.
"We're so glad to find someone else alive!" the girl said, her wavy red hair falling around a pair of perfect round breasts.
Her yokel boyfriend reached out to take Neville's hand. Neville lifted his loaded and silenced pistol and shot the man right in between the eyes. The girl started to scream, and Neville pointed his gun at her, but stopped himself from shooting.
"I think I'll make you my new playmate," he said, lowering the gun.
The girl turned to run, but he caught her by the hair, yanking her backwards.
"Quiet," he said through gritted teeth.
He couldn't believe his luck. She was perfect. So beautiful and innocent. The man he just shot had probably been her first and only boyfriend. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old and was dressed in a flowing floral print dress. Her breasts bounced beautifully as she screamed under his palm and struggled against him. He pulled out of the roll of duct tape from his shopping card and tore a strip to place over her mouth and another to tie her wrists behind her back.
He then took her to the car and shoved her into the front seat, tying her down so she couldn't escape. While he loaded his supplies into the trunk, she screamed under her gag and tears rolled down her pretty freckled cheeks. He climbed into the driver's seat of the car and reached out to fondle her breast affectionately.
"You're so pretty. Don't cry. It makes you ugly. You want to be pretty for me, don't you?" he asked.
She cried and shook, and his words didn’t console her. So, he reached out and slapped her across the face. She let out a long and horrified moan against the gag. He sighed and shook his head.
"You have a lot to learn," he said, turning the key in the ignition.
He drove away just as another horde of zombies approached the parking lot. When he got home, he
pulled the girl into his house and threw her onto the couch in the living room. She screamed when she saw the zombie lying inside the front door. He pushed it outside and mopped up the blood before carrying his new supplies into the house.
He stood in the living room for a moment, contemplating his new playmate and his future plans. He would need a new vehicle for what he intended to do. In general, things were going wonderfully for him. He couldn't have asked for a better Saturday morning. It was as if the stars had all aligned to give him everything he ever wanted in life. When he was done putting his things away, he began to pull the girl downstairs.
The trip into the basement took a great deal of force, considering she resisted him the entire way. Usually when he brought his playmates down there they were drugged and didn't put up so much of a fight. But this one was giving him quite a run for his money. She screamed when she saw his equipment, and fainted, her knees buckling before she fell to the floor.
Neville rolled his eyes and groaned. He lifted her curvy body up from the floor and placed her on the gurney before strapping her down. He left her there for some time, having other things to attend to besides the screaming ginger. He went upstairs and made himself a turkey sandwich with Dijon mustard and a cup of Earl Gray tea. As he sat at the kitchen table, the electricity in his house went out.
"Damn," he said to himself.
Things would be more difficult without electricity, but he had prepared for this inevitability. He doubted he could stay here very long. In times like these, it was best to not stay attached to a location. He knew he needed an armored car. Something that could plow down zombies. He didn't know how long he wanted to keep the girl around, but for now, knowing she was there gave him a little extra thrill.
When he was finished with his sandwich, he went into the basement and found the girl struggling against her bounds on the gurney. He ripped the duct tape from her mouth, leaving her lips swollen and red. She screamed her head off, incoherently babbling to let her go. He put his hand around her neck and squeezed, placing his finger to his lips.